The Fugitive
by Zubeneschamali
Summary: COMPLETE. Inspired by the classic story, an innocent man wrongly convicted of murder must flee for his life and his freedom while seeking the truth. Numb3rs Awards Round Three winner for best AU, Novella, and Drama.
1. Prologue

Title: The Fugitive  
Author: Zubeneschamali  
Rating: T (violence, language)  
Genre: Like, totally, AU.  
Summary: Inspired by the classic story, an innocent man wrongly convicted of murder must flee for his life and his freedom while seeking the truth.

Timeline: AU, branching off after "Money for Nothing." In this world, there was no mysterious DOJ assignment for Megan, no Janus List, and there never will be.

Disclaimer: I don't own Don (much as I'd like to) or any of the other NUMB3RS characters; this story was only written for fun and stress relief, not profit. Anyone you don't recognize is mine, however. Certain story elements are taken from the movie and both TV versions of "The Fugitive."

Author's notes: Long before I became obsessed with NUMB3RS, I was obsessed with "The Fugitive," and I was tickled when I finally worked out a way to bring the concept of one into the world of the other. If you're thinking this is too AU for you, stick with me; it'll all work out in the end.

Thanks to MizEm, Izhilzha, rittenden, and 3rdgal for concept review and encouragement; many thanks to ritt and Susan W. for more detailed beta reading. I also want to thank Suisan for technical help—any mistakes that remain are my own—and Lady Shelley for maintaining "Running the NUMB3RS."

Warning: supporting character death. Sorry, but there has to be one to tell this story properly…

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Saturday, January 12, 2008  
1:18 PM  
Santa Barbara Mountains

His heart was pounding like it was going to burst, and the relatively thin air had him gasping for breath, but he had to keep running, racing over the rock-strewn trail as fast as he could. One misstep could send him crashing to the ground with a twisted or broken ankle, or it could send him over the edge of the steep drop-off to his left. The trail kept twisting and turning, enough to keep his pursuer off his back, but also enough that he had to pay very close attention to his footing. The lack of sleep and food over the past twenty-four hours made paying attention even more difficult, but the adrenaline and desperation he was feeling more than made up for it.

"Eppes!" He heard the shout from behind him, and fear quickened his pace even more. He rounded a sharp corner and skidded a little on the loose rock that had crumbled off the outcropping to his right, putting out a hand to keep his balance. There was a relatively straight stretch of trail ahead, but to his dismay, it led to a series of switchbacks straight up the scrubby mountainside. There was no cover to speak of, nothing to keep him from being a clear target once his pursuer rounded the corner behind him and caught sight of him down the straightaway.

He slowed in his flight to look down to his left. It was a steep talus slope, a pile of rocks that were too small to afford cover but too large to simply slide down. Up ahead, though, the talus ended and the chaparral and manzanita vegetation resumed. If he could just get to that point, he could head down off the trail and hide among the thorny stems until it was safe to move on.

Then he heard the crunch of footsteps behind him, and he knew he was lost.

"Hold it right there!" The command came from what sounded like ten feet behind him, the point where the trail had curved around a rock outcropping. How had she gotten there so fast? He closed his eyes, fighting back the dread and helplessness that threatened to overwhelm him. If she got close enough, there was a chance that he could do something to get away. He didn't want to think about what that "something" might be. He was a federal officer himself, or at least he had been. He knew all too well the penalty for assaulting one.

But then, when you had already been convicted and sentenced to death for murdering a federal agent, you didn't really have a lot to lose.

"Hands up! Now!" She snapped the command in a voice that had become all too familiar during his weeks of interrogation. Special Agent Geraldina Javier had been the outsider brought in to the Los Angeles field office to investigate the murder of a member of that office, allegedly by a colleague, and the tangled web of corruption that had allegedly led to the murder. She had been unrelenting in questioning him and his team members and in pursuing the evidence, conducting what he would have considered a thorough investigation under any other circumstances. However, the fact that the investigation had ended with his wrongful conviction made him see otherwise. It figured that she would be the one to hunt him down after his escape on the way to the federal prison that would have been his home for the rest of his limited life.

Realizing that he had no other choice, he slowly raised his hands. He heard the scrape of her shoes on the rock as she came closer. A slight gust of wind came up, and a chill ran down his spine as the breeze brushed across his sweat-soaked back. It was colder up here than he had expected, and while he had been more than warm enough during his flight, he was now practically shivering. _Not that it's all from the temperature_, he thought grimly.

She was only a couple of steps behind him now, and he tensed. "On your knees," she commanded from what sounded like less than three feet away. "Then put your hands behind you."

He didn't say anything, but lowered himself to one knee. There was nothing to say, no way to beg for mercy. If there were any words he could use to convince her that he hadn't killed his fellow agent, he hadn't found them in the weeks after his arrest, and he wouldn't be able to find them now. As he waited for the cold steel of the handcuffs to close around his wrists and seal his fate, he stared grimly ahead at the rocky landscape, feeling the small flame of hope that had been lit when he slid out of the wrecked sheriff's bus being extinguished like a single, solitary match.

Another gust of wind ruffled his hair, and he heard a rustling sound coming from the hillside above them. They were standing in the middle of the talus slope, one long ramp of rocks extending for a thousand feet from top to bottom. The rocks making up the slope had all come from above them over the long years, and there was nothing to prevent more from joining them at any moment. Still on one knee, he glanced over his shoulder to see if the sound he had heard was a pebble or a boulder following the law of gravity, and if he was going to have to jump out of the way.

As he did so, he saw that Javier's attention was entirely focused on the rocky slope. And he knew with a cold certainty that he would not get another chance.

He spun up and to his left, bringing his arms in front of him so that when he had turned completely around, his momentum carried him into Javier, driving into her side shoulder-first like a linebacker while he reached for her gun with his outstretched hands. She fell back against the boulder by the side of the trail, a whoosh of breath escaping her lungs, and although he heard the clink of the handcuffs falling to the ground, she kept a one-handed grip on the weapon. He twisted around, trying to trap her body between him and the rock in order to amplify the pressure on her left arm, which he had managed to trap between his elbow and his side.

Pressed closely to her as he was, he could feel the shift in her weight as a warning, and he danced back as she tried to stomp on his foot. He knew the procedures for keeping a suspect from getting a hold of his weapon; he'd never thought he would have to make use of them from the point of view of the person trying to _take_ the gun from an agent.

He winced as her fingernails scraped across the back of his right hand, but he realized that the position of her hands meant he could gain greater purchase on the gun. With one final burst of strength, he wrested the gun all the way out of her grip, pulling back in a mirror of the move that had gotten him to the weapon in the first place. Swallowing hard at what he was about to do and at all of the implications that it posed, he raised the gun and pointed it at Special Agent Javier.

She froze, her back pressed against the russet-colored boulder behind her. Her shoulders were heaving, and he realized her breathing rate matched his own. A small part of him wanted to laugh at how ridiculous this situation was, but the rest of him realized that it was deadly serious. She wouldn't be the only person out here looking for him, and if he wasn't careful, he wouldn't have bought anything with his assault of a federal officer besides a few more seconds of freedom.

"Put your hands on top of your head." His voice sounded rough, and he had to clear his throat, hoping she couldn't hear the nervousness underlying his words. "How many are there?"

She was slowly raising her hands, interlacing her fingers without being told. "How many what?"

He shook his head impatiently. She knew damn well what he meant. "How many more are behind you?"

She regarded him for a moment, her light brown eyes boring into his. Another gust of wind blew wisps of chestnut hair into her eyes, but she didn't flinch. Finally she said in a tone of quiet, practiced confidence, "Three behind me and four coming down from above. They'll be here any minute."

He felt the corner of his mouth turning up. He'd used that same tone of voice himself on more than one occasion, trying to bluff a suspect into believing that the cavalry was right behind him when in reality, they were precious minutes away. There were other searchers out there, of that he had no doubt. But now he knew that if he could get away from here within the next few minutes, he stood a pretty good chance of getting away all together.

He was standing only a couple of feet away from her, close enough to look into her eyes and read the bravado there that matched her bluffing words. But he saw something else as her eyes flickered down to the gun he was holding on her, something he wasn't used to seeing in an FBI agent's expression, certainly not one with the same amount of age and experience that he had, and it floored him.

She was terrified of him.

He took an involuntary step back. Slowly, disbelievingly, as if he were realizing it for the first time, he asked, "You really think I killed her, don't you?"

Her chin lifted a fraction, and her reply was brief. "Yes."

He grimaced. He'd known that she had believed him guilty from the start; that had never been in doubt. She had looked vindicated at the trial, not in the sense that she was lording her victory over him or his fellow agents, but simply that she had been right and that justice had prevailed. He had known that all along. So why was it striking him so hard just now?

It was the fear on her face, he realized. She was trying to hide it with a blank expression, but he could see the bleak resignation that he'd felt a time or two himself when escape had seemed impossible. The gun in his hand shifted downwards a fraction of an inch. When he spoke, his voice was low and rough. "And you think that I'm going to kill you."

"No, it's just the altitude that's making me breathe faster here," she retorted. The snappy comeback made him think of Megan for a second, and he thought as he had a few times before of how much the two women might have liked each other if they had met in different circumstances. He knew, though, that Javier's sarcastic reply was hiding sheer terror. He knew because he'd made similar sharp retorts to keep himself distracted when he thought he was about to die. Just like she must be thinking right now.

And that realization scared him to death.

He swallowed. "Pick those up," he said, taking a step back and gesturing at the handcuffs lying on the ground between them.

She eyed him warily, but slowly bent over to retrieve the restraints from where they had fallen. As she straightened up, he pointed at a tree a few steps behind her at the side of the trail. It was a scraggly little thing, the main trunk no thicker than her wrist, but it rose at least twice as tall as she was. "Put your hands around it and cuff them together." He took another step backwards as he spoke, his foot carefully feeling for the side of the trail while his eyes remained locked on his former pursuer. She might be able to exert enough pressure to bend the tall twig over and get herself free, but it would buy him enough time to slip away. He hoped.

She did as he said, but not without another sharp comment. "I guess one dead federal agent on your conscience is enough for you?"

He narrowed his eyes, his discomfort momentarily giving way to anger. "I didn't kill Agent Warner," he growled, aware that saying the words now was no more likely to make her believe him than any of the previous times he'd spoken them.

She glanced at her gun, still held in his hands and still aimed at her. "If you say so," she wryly replied.

He wanted to roll his eyes at her, but he didn't let himself react. After all, he had to admit to himself, pointing a gun at someone while proclaiming your innocence of murder was a pretty good example of the concept of "mixed message."

He took another step backward, then paused, lowering the gun to point down at the ground. "I didn't kill her," he repeated a little more desperately, wishing somehow that repeating the words enough times would make someone believe him, would make this whole nightmare go away, would take back his arrest and his conviction and his sentence and bring him back home. He had given the justice system its chance, and it had betrayed him like he never could have imagined.

Now, by a miracle, he had been given a chance to get away, and he wasn't going to let it pass. So before she could reply, he turned around and raced down the trail, hoping that he had enough of a lead on the other searchers that he would be able to get away completely.

As for what would happen after that—he had absolutely no idea.

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A/N: This is going to be a long one…raise your hand if you're on board…or if you're even remotely interested…


	2. 1a: The Longest Road

A/N: Wow, I didn't realize I was driving such a big bus. Or train. Or whatever this is. Thanks so much for the reviews, everyone; hope you enjoy the ride!

I was going to apologize to the Liz fans out there (_are_ there any Liz fans out there?) for killing her off, but no one seems to mind very much. Still, someone had to do it! Er, that is, someone had to be the victim.

Disclaimer and acknowledgments in the Prologue.

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Chapter 1: The Longest Road

Friday, January 11, 2008  
9:42 A.M.  
US Highway 101 near La Conchita, CA

On the list of scenic drives in the United States, US Highway 101 is at the top. It travels nearly the full length of the West Coast from Los Angeles, CA, to Olympia, WA. It twists and turns against a backdrop of stunning scenery, from the waves crashing on the rocky coast on the left (for the northbound traveler) to the steep green and gold hillsides soaring up sharply to the right. It is one of three routes connecting southern and northern California, by far the least direct and the slowest, but also the most beautiful by far. Travelers come from around the world to drive this stretch of road just for the pleasure of enjoying the curves and vistas of the Pacific Highway.

Don Eppes stared unseeing out the window at the landscape passing by, oblivious to the beauty rolling past. For one, the view was obstructed by the bars across the window of the bus. For another, his thoughts were far too bleak to be improved by something as mundane as the most gorgeous scenery in the state. He was sitting on a Los Angeles County Sheriff's bus, sharing the ride with four armed guards and two other prisoners on their way to the federal penitentiary at Lompoc. Every time he moved, the clinking of the shackles around his wrists and ankles was yet another reminder of what his future held in store for him. He tried to keep as still as he could.

"Hey Eppes! Think your cellmate's gonna be glad to meet you?"

The guards knew who he was, of course. The case of the FBI agent convicted for murdering his colleague and lover in order to cover up a conspiracy of bribery and corruption had been in the headlines for weeks. The Bureau had pulled strings to get the trial date set as quickly as possible, and in a bare six months from the date of Agent Elizabeth Warner's death, Don was standing trial in federal court in Los Angeles. The trial itself had gone fairly quickly due to the key evidence: ballistics matched his service piece to the bullets that had stopped Liz's heart almost instantly, his fingerprints were on the murder weapon, and her body was found sprawled across his bed. The fact that he had been the one to call in the victim, and that of course his fingerprints would have been on his own weapon, were easily explained away by the prosecutor. The jury's verdict had been as swift and sure as any he had seen from the other side of the courtroom. The judge's sentence of death by lethal injection was justified given Liz's status as a federal agent. Death penalty cases were automatically appealed, and of course there would still be the bribery and evidence-tampering charges to answer to, but in the meantime, he was on his way to prison.

The bus rounded a turn, another breathtaking view of the coast opening before them. Traffic was relatively light this time of the day, the morning commute back east to greater Los Angeles over and their westward journey shared with only a few cars on their way to Santa Barbara, Lompoc, or points farther north along the coast. He'd been out here with Liz a few weeks before her death; they'd allowed themselves the luxury of two whole days out of the office after a sixty-hour work week that had ended happily with the recovery of a kidnapped child. They'd enjoyed that weekend even more than he had anticipated, and it had gotten him thinking about the long-term nature of their relationship more than he ever had before.

As it turned out, it had been the last substantial time they spent alone together.

For the last six months, Don kept feeling like one of Larry's wormholes had opened up and dropped him in some alternate dimension, forcing him to live someone else's life. He'd devoted his life to chasing down criminals, seeking out perpetrators of horrible crimes and doing his best to keep the rest of the population safe. The fact that the system he had built his career and his very life around had turned on him so abruptly left him with a deep-seated feeling of betrayal. He knew his former team members shared that sense of outrage; he'd seen it in their faces at the trial. They'd been forbidden from investigating the case, of course, their interests too clearly conflicted to be objective. Instead, he'd been subjected to an outside investigation by Agent Geraldina Javier, a tall Mexican-American woman who had earned her way up to being a Special Agent in Charge in the Washington, DC, field office by focusing on her work with a single-mindedness that reminded Don of no one so much as himself. He would have appreciated that devotion to the case in any other situation.

Don's chains clinked together, drawing his thoughts back into the present. The road was relatively smooth, but he soon realized they hadn't hit a pothole. Instead, the bus felt like it was momentarily going over a small hump in the road, followed by a slight dip. He quickly realized what was happening and looked out the window. Sure enough, the telephone poles alongside the road were swaying slightly, the sign of a minor earthquake. The bus did the gentle up-and-down motion a couple more times, and then continued on as before.

The blond guard at the front of the bus was looking around nervously. "Should we pull over?

The prisoner two rows in front of Don, a short African-American man with a shaved head, giggled. "What, you never felt an earthquake before?"

The inmate on the other side of the bus, a beefy white man with arms as thick around as Don's legs, called out in a tone of fake concern, "Yeah, let's pull over. I'm scared the bus is going to go off the road if we get another hit like that."

"Sorry, y'all," called the guard sitting in the back of the bus. "Even this Mississippi boy knows that was only a little tremor. No side trips for you today. We are going directly to jail, not passing Go, and not collecting two hundred dollars." He snickered at his own joke.

Don's gaze was fixed on the hillside next to them as a barely-audible rumbling sound continued to fade. The mountains rose steeply out of the ocean here, the product of centuries of the tectonic plates pushing and shoving that made this one of the newest landscapes in the world. As a result, the angle of the slope was extremely steep, the forces of erosion that were slowly pulling the land down not able to keep pace with the tectonic forces pushing it up.

A movement off in the distance caught his eye, and he squinted to try and see better past the metal bars on the windows. Something looked strange at the top of one of the hills about a quarter-mile ahead of them. After a moment, he realized what it was, and his heart started to pound. Combined with the low rumbling sound that he could still hear, but at first had written off as the last of the earthquake, it was clear: the hillside was moving.

"Hey," he called out, trying to lift an arm to point out the window but grimacing when the motion was cut off by the chains. "See that?"

The dark-haired guard in front of him turned around and glared. "The only thing I see is a cop-killer who'd better shut his mouth before I do it for him."

Don fought for a moment to collect his temper. There was no use starting something here that he couldn't win. "I'm serious," he said in a low tone. "Up on the hill. It looks like a landslide."

The guard stood up and turned around, looming over him. "Look, we've heard all of the jokes already about the earthquake. You think you're being funny, don't you?"

"I'm not—" Don started to protest, but the blond at the front cut him off. "I think he's right," he said with a small quaver to his voice. "I think we're headed for an avalanche."

The bus driver's head jerked up to the right, and Don followed his gaze. They had drawn closer in the intervening seconds, and it was clear that something was coming down the slope towards the road. It might have only been a large rock, but there was definitely something there.

The bus started to slow as they entered a curve, rounding a point to bend inland away from the coast. As they rounded the bend, the driver let out a sharp gasp, echoed by the blond guard. What they had seen from a distance was only the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. Hidden from them had been the main body of what was now apparent as a substantial landslide, racing down the slope at a speed guaranteed to intersect their path within seconds. The rumble became a roar, the noise filling the space inside the bus.

"Hold on!" the driver shouted as he slammed his foot down, and the bus lurched forward. Don thought he was crazy, but looking back up at the approaching mountainside, he realized that trying to outrun the thing might be better than slamming on the brakes. Up ahead, there was a small flat patch of ground between the road and the hillside, enough to catch the material sliding down the hill or at least disperse it a bit. Where they currently were, there was nothing to slow the debris flow except the telephone poles that suddenly seemed like toothpicks compared to the moving hillside.

If Charlie were here, Don thought, he'd be calculating the velocity of the rocks and dirt tumbling towards them, vectoring it against their forward motion and determining the probability they would make it through. All he and the rest of the vehicle's occupants could do was sit and wait.

And in a few seconds, it became apparent to even the non-geniuses on board that they weren't going to make it.

The driver was leaning forward as if he could get the bus to go faster, but in a few seconds, there was a pinging noise on the roof audible above the general din. The prisoner in front of Don jumped at the sound. Out the window, he could see small rocks bouncing out ahead of the main body of the slide. It was those small rocks that were now striking the roof of the bus.

With a final burst of speed, they rounded a slight bend, but the clear ground was too far away. The roaring sound was all around them now, the initial material of the debris flow having intersected the bus's tires. They started bouncing around like a plane encountering severe turbulence, their pace slowing despite the driver's desperate attempts to pump the accelerator.

Suddenly, Don was thrown sideways and on to the floor as the world began to spin around him. Dimly, he realized that something had hit the back of the bus and thrown it into a tailspin beyond the driver's ability to control it. Only the chains around his wrists and ankles kept him from sliding all the way across the aisle, but they were cutting into his skin with the pull of centrifugal force.

The prisoner up front was shouting something that Don couldn't hear; the roar of the slide was still too loud. In a second, he realized the reason for the man's panicked tone. Out the right side of the bus, he could see the guardrail coming closer and closer. They were being pushed right across the road, with nothing on the other side of the railing but the Pacific Ocean.

Something else struck the vehicle, which was now facing the opposite direction that it had been at the start. He heard a crash of glass from behind him, followed by a thud. He managed to turn his head and saw the deputy from Mississippi sprawled across the floor, blood streaming across his forehead. The bars were dented in at the window he'd been sitting next to, and shattered glass was strewn across the seats.

Their motion started to slow. He struggled to his knees to see that they had reached the guardrail, and while the bus wasn't moving, the landslide was still coming. The mud was starting to pile up the side of the bus, and in a few minutes it was likely to be coming in through the broken window. The big man across the aisle had realized the same thing, and he was tugging at his chains ineffectually.

At the front of the bus, the driver was slumped over the steering wheel, and he couldn't see the blond deputy at all. The dark-haired man who'd been taunting him earlier was struggling to his feet, and the fourth deputy, a Hispanic man seated behind the driver, was already standing and fumbling for the keys at his belt. He shouted something at the dark-haired man that Don couldn't hear, but it set off an argument between the two of them.

The rumbling was growing a little quieter, but the bus was starting to lean towards the right and the waves below. All it would take was one more big rock, Don thought, and they would tumble over the edge.

He looked up at the still-moving hillside, and his eyes widened at what he saw. "Get down!" he shouted at the two deputies. "Get down!" But if they heard him, they didn't acknowledge him.

Don braced himself against the seat as best he could, watching in fascinated horror as a boulder the size of a Mini Cooper came rolling towards them. At the last minute, it impacted something else in the debris flow and came nearly to a stop, slowing its motion like a train of cars coming to the top of a roller coaster. After a moment of stomach-churning anticipation, it pitched forward and finished a final rotation into the side of the bus behind the driver's seat, denting in the side of the vehicle a good three feet. The impact was enough to send them all lurching to the right, the guardrail audibly straining under the stress, the ocean visible through the windows that were now partially below them.

The rumbling grew quieter. The bus shifted a little, but only a little. He looked around at the other occupants of the bus. The dark-haired guard had apparently not seen that last rock coming; he was crumpled up on the floor, his leg crushed under the seats that had received the brunt of the blow from the boulder. The Hispanic man had fared better; he appeared to be unconscious, draped over the seat three rows in front of Don as if he had tried to brace himself but hadn't quite succeeded. From the front of the bus, he could hear someone groaning, but he wasn't sure if it was the driver or a deputy.

In the sudden quiet, a jingling noise caught his attention. He looked up to see that the Hispanic guard's keys were dangling from his belt. The prisoner up front was reaching for them, obviously straining against the chains that were still holding him in place.

"Come on," he heard from behind him, and he jerked back, startled. He turned to see the big man leaning out into the aisle behind him, watching intently. "Come on, Jackson, get the damn keys!"

He frowned at the man. Even if they managed to free themselves, what would they do, anyway? Climb out of the bus and wait for someone to come and cart them off again? Call for help? Make a run for it? He snorted at the irony of that thought. At least all of the time he had worked Fugitive Recovery would come in handy.

From the angle the bus was sitting at, he couldn't see the road next to them, but he could see up and down its length. The slide seemed to be about a thousand yards long, and they were nearly in the middle of it. It would take rescuers some time to get to them, and he could see that there were a couple of other vehicles trapped in the muck, although none were in as much danger as their own. If anyone on this bus was seriously injured, they were going to have a hard time getting help.

The bus shifted underneath him again. That decided it. They were going to have to get everyone out of the vehicle in case it tipped over the edge. It wasn't a huge drop-off, maybe only a few feet, but it could still do serious damage to anyone inside.

He watched with bated breath as Jackson lunged forward, straining against the metal around his wrists. His fingertips brushed against the keys, tantalizingly close. Aware of his audience, he took a deep breath and tried again. This time, he caught the tip of one of the keys between two of his fingers, and he slowly tugged at it. The whole batch of keys began to slide out of the deputy's belt, the man himself still oblivious to what was going on. Jackson paused to get a better grip on the keys, then with another tug, managed to get the whole ring into his hand.

"All right!" the burly man exclaimed. "Let's go!"

A few seconds later, Jackson was standing upright, or at least as upright as he could manage in the tilted bus. "Here," he called, flipping the keys to Don. It took a moment to find which of the many keys was the one he wanted, but soon he was rubbing at his wrists and letting out a sigh of heartfelt relief. He released his ankles as well and tossed the keys to the man behind him. "Come on, we've got to get everyone out of here."

"Yeah, whatever." It took the other man even less time to free himself, and when he was done, he shouted towards the front, "Hey, Jackson! Anyone alive up there?"

The other man was peering past the dented-in part of the bus. "Yeah, Paul, I think so."

Don clambered over the seats towards the front, checking on the two deputies along the way. Both were alive, if unconscious. He couldn't see up into the front of the bus, but the moan of pain he heard told him that the driver, at least, was still alive.

"Man, I guess that's why you're supposed to wear a seat belt." Jackson's voice rang out next to him. "Guess these were good for something, huh?" He rattled the chain that had connected his wrist and ankle shackles, a triumphant grin on his face.

"Hey, give me a hand here, will you?" Don gestured at the Hispanic deputy, the only one not visibly trapped. "We're going to have to carry him out the back."

"You crazy? I'm getting out of here before anyone shows up." The black man gestured at the wide open back of the bus. "You want to get caught again, be my guest." Then he turned around and started climbing down the main aisle towards the back.

Don grimaced. He should have expected that. Glancing at the other remaining prisoner, he said, "How about you? This man needs medical attention, and this bus might fall over before the paramedics arrive."

The big man shrugged. "Sucks to be him, I guess." He was reaching over the two unconscious deputies, and a big grin struck his face. It was not a pleasant sight. When he held up the two guns that he had removed from their holsters, Don's stomach sank.

He tried one more time. "Look, help me get him out of the bus, and then you can go wherever you want. He's the only one we can help, but he'll probably die if we don't do something."

"That right?" With a suddenness that made Don flinch, Paul raised one of the weapons and pointed it at the deputy. "Might be easier to just take care of him."

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the dark-skinned man stirring. The removal of his weapon must have been enough to jostle him awake. "You don't have to do that," he said urgently, trying to draw the convict's attention his way. "Let's get out of here."

The burly man looked at him suspiciously. "Why the change in tune all of a sudden?"

He tried to act casual. "You're making me nervous, that's all," he said, nodding towards the guns the other man held.

Paul's eyes connected with him, and sudden awareness lit them. "You're that FBI guy. You're a damn Fed." He aimed the second weapon in Don's direction. "No wonder you're trying to help these bastards. You think they're gonna give you time off for good behavior from a death sentence."

He held up his hands placatingly. "I'm not a Fed anymore," he said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his tone as he called on his negotiating skills in one of the strangest contexts he'd ever had to use them. "I just want to keep as many people alive as possible."

A noise caught both of their attention, and they turned to see the deputy stirring, reaching for the gun that was no longer there.

The other man turned back to Don. "Sorry I can't help you out with that," he said, and he fired.

The noise was deafening within the confines of the bus. The shot was deadly, driving into the deputy's chest and dropping him back onto the floor. Don stared at the other man, horrified. The second gun was still pointing at him, and his mouth went dry. If Paul thought he was a threat, he had about another five seconds to live.

The beefy man stared at him for a moment, and then started to back up, lowering the gun. "You want to save anyone else, be my guest," he sneered. "I'm out of here." Don watched as he clambered toward the back of the bus, out the door that Jackson had exited, and took off running.

He closed his eyes for a moment, willing his heart to slow down. The adrenaline pumping through him from the fight-or-flight response triggered by the accident and being held at gunpoint was sending his mind racing and his hands trembling. He ran through several possibilities in his head and concluded that staying on the bus with the murdered deputy five feet away was probably not in his long-term interests. Paul's words rang in his head. There was no time off for him for good behavior, no way that staying to try and free the other sheriff's deputies in what was probably a futile task would get him anywhere. Calling for help, on the other hand…

He didn't want to touch the murdered deputy for fear of having his fingerprints found on him, so he moved to the back of the bus, where the guard from Mississippi was sprawled on the ground. Don checked for his pulse and grimaced when he couldn't find one. He left the gun tucked in its holster, but reached for the cell phone resting next to it. He went to tuck it into his pocket but hesitated. The orange jumpsuit he was wearing was designed to be conspicuous, not practical, and he had no illusions about how much protection it would afford him. He looked down at the dead man and frowned. "I'm sorry," he said softly, and started removing the man's shirt.

As he worked to change his clothing, part of him couldn't believe what he was doing. Don Eppes, about to run from the law? Part of it was the primitive response to flee, the same impulse that had sent the other two prisoners racing out into the daylight. But as he worked, a plan started to form in his mind that made more and more sense. He'd been sitting in a kind of stupor the past six months, first too wrapped up in grief over Liz to react properly and then too stunned by what was happening to him. He'd become more passive than he ever thought he could, right up until the point where the landslide hit.

Now, as the possibility of freedom opened up a tiny crack before him, he started thinking about what he could do with it. He hadn't killed Liz Warner. But he had seen the man who did. If he could find him, somehow, along with the people responsible for the other crimes he'd been accused of, the bribery and destruction of evidence and corruption, they'd have to listen to him.

At any rate, it beat sitting in a prison cell waiting to die.

He laid the jumpsuit over the dead deputy, affording him what dignity he could. Then, taking a deep breath and looking around, he slipped out the back door of the bus.

He walked along the shoreline for half a mile or so, until he was out of sight of the landslide and anyone who might have shown up to help. He hadn't heard any sirens yet, but with the ubiquity of cell phones, another traveler on the 101 was bound to have already called in the event. What that caller wouldn't know, however, was that there was an armed and dangerous felon running loose, and another escapee as well. Local law enforcement wasn't equipped to deal with that; but he knew who was.

Hands slightly shaking, he dialed the familiar number and held the phone up to his ear.

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A/N: La Conchita, CA, is the site of a couple of well-known landslides, including the most recent one in 2005 that killed ten people.


	3. 1b: The Longest Road

Disclaimer and acknowledgments in the Prologue.

Alice I gets a virtual cookie for being the first to recognize where Geraldina Javier's first name comes from. Congrats! Cookies to whomever gets the other allusions I've sprinkled throughout the story…

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Friday, January 11, 2008  
10:15 A.M.  
L.A. FBI Field Office

The computer beeped again for the fifth time in as many minutes. No match. Megan Reeves sighed and looked down at the list in her hand. Considering how boring and soul-sucking as this grunt work was, she would be grateful if once in a while it actually turned up something that was useful to someone else. While all of Don's cases were being reviewed by the special task force that had been convened to look into the corruption investigation, his former teammates were virtually immobilized, unable to investigate new cases until their own involvement had been cleared. But since they couldn't be placed on leave indefinitely, their superiors had found the kind of work to keep them occupied that was normally assigned to the most junior of agents. It had gotten old fairly quickly, and that was months ago.

Behind her, Colby sat at his desk, engaged in similarly dull work. David was somewhere across the bullpen, getting another box's worth of files to go through. The three of them had grown closer over the past six months, watching each others' backs in the office as well as they did in the field, making it clear to everyone that they stood by their accused boss and believed him completely innocent. They had some supporters throughout the office, but Megan got the feeling that most people considered them simply too stubborn or blind to see the truth.

The phone rang, and she reached for it, expecting to hear Sandy Carter, their temporary supervisor, inquiring as to when she could expect the results from the license plate search they were carrying out. "Reeves," she said, still absently looking down at the list of plates she held.

"Megan, don't say my name," came the voice on the other end.

Her head shot up, her nerves instantly coming alert. "How can I help you?" she asked calmly, looking around surreptitiously to see if anyone other than Colby was in hearing range.

He answered, "There was an accident on the 101. The sheriff's bus was hit by a landslide; two deputies and the driver are trapped."

She chose her words carefully. "What about the others?"

He gave a short sigh that came through as a burst of static. "One deputy was killed in the crash; another was killed by one of the escaping prisoners. All three of them got clear."

She closed her eyes and brought a hand to her mouth. When she opened them, Colby was staring at her curiously. She mouthed Don's name at him, and his eyes widened. Then he, too, cast a careful glance around to make sure that no one else was listening in, and gave her a signal to indicate that he'd be keeping watch.

"So you want one of us to come and get you?" she asked. That would be the easiest way for him to turn himself in, or at least the friendliest. It would be awkward to explain, and potentially difficult to get permission from her superiors, but she was sure she could talk her way into it.

There was a long silence. Finally he said, "No, that won't be necessary."

She stared blankly at the cubicle wall, unsure if she had interpreted his words correctly. He couldn't be saying… "What's that supposed to mean?" she hissed.

He hesitated again before saying in a tone of finality, "I'm not coming back in."

"Do—" she started before catching herself and turning the start of his name into a different word. "Do you understand what you're saying?"

The half-laugh that he gave sounded more than a little desperate. "Believe me, I know how it sounds."

"No, I don't think you do." She dropped her voice even lower. "How many years did you work Fugitive Recovery? You know better than anyone else what they'll be sending after you, and that it'll only make things worse in the long run. Look, the appeal process is underway, and we're doing everything we can to make it work. Just let me know where you are."

The harsh tone of his reply startled her. "What, like new evidence is going to fall from the sky while I'm sitting on Death Row, crossing my fingers?" She tried to interrupt, but he went on, "You know how fast things went down, Megan. I know you guys worked your asses off trying to find something to explain away the prosecution's case, and believe me, I appreciate it. But there's nothing that you're going to find to exonerate me in the time you have to work with. I need to find the man who shot Liz. That's the only thing that's going to save me."

She pressed her lips together, not wanting to give him the concession of agreeing with him, even though deep down, she knew he was right. The only way an appeal would be won was by showing incompetence on the part of Don's attorney, which wasn't likely considering how highly recommended he had come, or from the introduction of new evidence. And if dozens of FBI agents hadn't managed to come up with something to clear him before, there was next to no chance that they could do it now.

But what he was suggesting was still crazy. "So you think you can do that on your own better than we can with all of the resources we have?"

"Look, you're not going to get to use those resources. The case is over, shut. They're not looking for Liz's killer anymore, and they're not going to let you use the FBI to do it."

Colby made a _hsst_ sound, and she looked up to see David approaching. She held up a hand to signal him, and quickly wrote on a notepad, "Sheriff's bus accident on 101. Tell Carter." She handed it to him, mouthed, "Later," as a response to his puzzled expression, and waved him off.

"Megan?"

She'd left too long of a pause, and she hurried to fill it. "Listen, I hear what you're saying, but you need to understand something." She looked at the still-empty desk next to hers, picturing the man whom she had trusted with her life on numerous occasions, who had held their team together and whose absence left a gaping hole in all three of them. When she spoke, it was as clearly and carefully as she could. "If you stay on the outside, we can not help you. The appeal process will have been short-circuited, and there will be nothing we can do for you." She bit her lip after she said the harsh words, hoping that he heard the anguish behind them.

"I know that." His voice was low and understanding.

Her brow furrowed as something occurred to her. Don knew that all calls coming into the field office were recorded, if not directly monitored. Her cell phone sat in her bag right underneath her desk, and it was not subject to the same kind of electronic scrutiny. Why would he take such a risk?

He was speaking again. "Listen, you need to get medical help on the way, and you're going to need a full-scale manhunt for the two men who ran. The black guy, Jackson, took off running, but the big one, I think his name was Paul, is armed and definitely dangerous."

She started making notes. "He's the one who—"

He cut her off before she could say the words out loud. "Yeah, he's the one who did the shooting."

The corner of her mouth quirked up at the care he was taking to be sure she wasn't being overheard. Trust Don to be the one trying to protect her when he was the escaped felon. Then the full meaning of those words, "escaped felon," hit her, and she sat back in her chair. Taking a deep breath, she said softly, "You mean for the _three_ men, don't you?"

There was another long silence. Finally he replied, so quietly she almost didn't hear it, "Yeah, I guess I do."

She didn't know what to say. She knew she should be getting someone to start a trace on this call, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Besides, Don would know to get rid of the phone as soon as he hung up, and it was fairly obvious that he was in the immediate vicinity of where the accident had taken place.

Across the bullpen, she could see David coming her way, their supervisor in tow. _Damn_. "Listen, I'm sorry but I need to get going to act on this information. You, uh…" Her voice dropped as she tried to keep it from breaking. "You take care."

His reply, though terse, sounded equally emotional. "You too, Megan."

There was a click, and he was gone.

She slowly hung up the phone and turned to face Colby. His face was full of questions, but she rose to greet the short blond woman walking with David. "That was an anonymous call," she started. "Apparently a sheriff's bus transporting three prisoners to Lompoc was in an accident on the 101, and they need assistance right away."

Sandy asked, "Are the prisoners secure?"

Megan paused, deciding how to say it. "The caller said none of the three are secure."

Sandy's eyes narrowed at the same time that David's and Colby's widened in understanding. "So in other words, we've got a manhunt on our hands."

"There's more." She looked at her two teammates, knowing that she had to make the full disclosure as soon as possible. "One of those prisoners was our agent. Don Eppes was on that bus."

Sandy took a step back and looked between the three of them suspiciously. "Just how anonymous was that phone call?" she asked slowly.

"The caller didn't give his name," Megan said truthfully. She rushed on, "Right now, we need to get started on finding the three prisoners and making sure the paramedics are on their way to the bus."

"Yes, right now _we_ need to be doing that." The other woman looked pointedly at her. "And if you don't mind, _I'll_ be taking charge of that, including getting another team to find and analyze the recording of that conversation you just had."

Megan struggled to keep her face blank. "If that will help bring them in, then of course."

Sandy pursed her lips. "I'll also be sending someone over to talk with all three of you about where Eppes might be headed. Any information you can provide would be extremely helpful." The sarcasm fairly dripped from her voice on the last sentence.

"Of course." She kept up the façade for another minute, until Sandy had turned around and headed away, already barking orders across the bullpen. Then she made a face at her back that could only be described as childish. But it made her feel a lot better.

"No wonder no one wants to work with us," Colby teased as the three of them sat down. "With an attitude like that, Reeves…"

"Okay, what's going on?" David interrupted. He lowered his voice and asked, "That was Don on the phone? And you're telling us he escaped from custody?" When she nodded, he sat back in his chair and shook his head. "That doesn't sound like him."

Megan let out a sigh. "I think he's had too much and saw this sudden opportunity as a chance to try and get away. Not only from the authorities, but from the whole situation. I think fight-or-flight kicked in with a vengeance, and I think he'll be lucky to last a few days out there." She grimaced at the professional tone of her voice. She didn't like the feeling of profiling her own teammate and friend, nor how she'd slipped into the role so easily.

She leaned back in her chair and looked over at the sudden flurry in one corner of the bullpen. He had to know how difficult it would be to elude the combined power of the agencies who would be out there looking for him: local, state, and federal officers all tasked with hunting him down. If what he had said about one of the deputies being murdered was true, they would probably be treating him as armed and dangerous. What was he thinking?

But then she thought of what he had to face if he surrendered, and she could empathize with his desire to flee. She had very carefully not been looking at the clock this morning, knowing he was on his way to the federal penitentiary where he would likely spend the rest of his life. As difficult as it was for her to think about, she could only imagine what it must be like for him. Put in the same situation, who was to say that she wouldn't have done the same thing?

"Now we're definitely not getting off grunt duty any time soon," Colby grumbled, but his eyes showed the concern he felt. They all knew the odds that Don faced, and that their hands were completely tied with regards to helping him.

"He'll be lucky to last a few days," Megan repeated in a murmur, glancing again at the empty desk. The three shared a look of mixed worry and regret, and then turned their chairs around to get back to work.

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A/N: So whaddya think? Still on board? Leave a review…


	4. 2a: The Road I'm On

Disclaimer and acknowledgments in the Prologue. Thanks for the reviews...keep 'em coming!

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Chapter 2: The Road I'm On

Friday, January 11, 2008  
1:45 PM  
Eppes house

The doorbell rang, and Alan looked away from the TV. He'd been trying to distract himself with a DVD, but it wasn't working. Today was the day Don was being transferred to the federal penitentiary at Lompoc, and try as he might, his thoughts kept coming back to the chilling image of his baby boy in an orange jumpsuit and shackles, surrounded by hardened criminals in a cold jail cell. Charlie had disappeared into the garage even earlier than usual this morning, and he hadn't come out for lunch. Alan had automatically prepared a sandwich for him the same way he did every afternoon lately, but somehow couldn't bring himself to take it out to him. He _needed_ his younger son today, needed him to be there with him to help him keep from thinking about the son who wasn't there. Instead, he thought as he got to his feet and walked to the door, he was alone in the living room waiting for the news he didn't want to hear: confirmation from Megan that the transfer had proceeded as planned. Maybe this was her now.

He opened the door, and froze for a moment at the unexpected sight. Then he said in an overly polite tone with an undercurrent of steel, "Agent Javier. What are you doing here?"

She stood tall in the doorway, nearly the same height as him in the short heels she was wearing. "I need to know if you've heard from Don today," she said without preamble.

"I didn't realize they were going to allow him to take his cell phone in the transport vehicle," he retorted.

She searched his face for a moment before saying quietly, "So you haven't heard."

The sinking feeling that followed her words was all too familiar to him. He'd felt that awful anticipation too many times in the last few months, never worse than right before the jury foreman had pronounced the guilty verdict. He kept thinking things couldn't get any worse, and yet somehow, they always seemed to.

His mouth was dry as he asked, "Heard what?"

She drew a breath and spoke in her usual business-like tone. "This morning, there was a small earthquake centered off the coast near Santa Barbara. The only major damage was a landslide triggered by the quake that covered part of the 101. Unfortunately, there happened to be an L.A. County Sheriff's bus going by at that precise moment."

He put his hand to his mouth and staggered back a step. "Oh my God," he whispered, afraid to ask the obvious question.

She went on anyway. "The three prisoners on board escaped, but not before killing one of the deputies guarding them. Another deputy and the driver are both in critical condition."

It took a moment for that to sink in. When it did, he glared at her. "Don would have had nothing to do with that. He certainly wouldn't do anything to harm a law enforcement officer."

She raised an eyebrow, but didn't respond. Instead, she said, "There are three convicted felons on the loose in Ventura County. One of them is Don Eppes. If you hear anything from him, you need to notify me at once, or you can be charged with aiding and abetting."

He pressed his lips together. "Don wouldn't contact me. He wouldn't want to put me in that position." _Because he knows that I'd keep my mouth shut_, he thought to himself. He'd set himself against the authorities before in his radical youth, and he was more than willing to do it in this case.

Agent Javier apparently knew that, too, because she gave him a hard look. "The best thing you can do for him is get him to turn himself in."

He snorted. "Because he's better off sitting on Death Row? Sorry if I fail to agree with your analysis."

She regarded him for a moment more before stepping back. "You are the most obvious person for him to contact," she said, and the warning tone in her voice was clear. "I'll be in touch."

"I won't," Alan muttered after her retreating back. He shut the front door with a little more force than necessary, then turned around and leaned against it. "Donnie," he whispered in a voice that sounded like a prayer.

A noise startled him, and he looked up to see Charlie in the kitchen doorway. "Dad?" Suddenly Charlie's face filled with concern, and he came forward, dropping a stack of papers on the table. "Dad, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

He quickly nodded to alleviate his son's worry. Twice in the nightmarish months since Don's arrest, he had been taken to the hospital with chest pains. Neither incident had been serious, but he had gotten a stern talking-to from Millie, who reminded him that Charlie needed his father far too much right now for him not to be taking proper care of himself. He'd snorted at the doctor's suggestion that he reduce any major sources of stress in his life, but he had tried to keep calmer. He'd grimly thought once or twice that if hearing his son sentenced to death by lethal injection hadn't caused him to keel over, nothing would.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts and addressed Charlie, standing before him. "I'm fine, son. I just got some news about Don, that's all."

Charlie flinched, and Alan could see him starting to draw back into himself the way he did any time Don's name was mentioned. He took a step towards him, as if by physically reaching out he could keep Charlie mentally present. "There was an accident with the vehicle carrying him to Lompoc." When Charlie's eyes widened, he hurried on, "It was a landslide from a small quake that hit the bus. Apparently the three—" He broke off, unable to refer to his son as a prisoner or a criminal. "The three people being transported all got away from the vehicle."

"So Don's okay." The flat tone of Charlie's voice made it clear that he didn't think "okay" was an accurate description, even if it was the right word to use in the circumstances.

Alan took a deep breath. "They got away, Charlie. They escaped."

He blinked, and Alan could almost see the wheels turning in the professor's head as he processed this information. Then he asked incredulously, "Don escaped? He's on the run?"

Alan nodded. "That's what Agent Javier came by to tell us."

Charlie rolled his eyes, and Alan knew his youngest was fully present from the look of disdain on his face. "Oh, her," he growled.

Even though they were adults, Alan normally would reprimand either one of his sons for referring to a woman with such a tone of disrespect. But in this case, he was inclined to agree. "If he contacts us, we're supposed to contact her, yadda yadda."

Charlie gave a faint smile, but then his face fell. "Dad," he started, then stopped. When Alan nodded encouragingly, pleased that Charlie was actually continuing a conversation about his brother instead of shutting it down, he went on, "Dad, this is going to sound like a dumb question, but…is this a good thing?"

Alan knew as only a father could that even Charlie Eppes was capable of asking dumb questions from time to time. But this was not one of those times. "I was wondering the same thing," he responded quietly. One side of him was overjoyed at the thought of Don no longer being imprisoned. But the rest of him was filled with fear at what he might be facing instead. How could he survive completely on his own?

The two Eppes men stared at each other, each thinking of the absent family member who'd been torn away from them. Now, they were both left wondering not when, but if, they would ever see him again.

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2:48 P.M.  
L.A. FBI Field Office

"Agents, have a seat." Dina Javier gestured to the chairs around the conference table. She'd deliberately chosen to meet here and not in an interrogation room to try and keep the defensiveness to a minimum. She'd interacted with these three many times before, both one-on-one and in a group. She knew their propensity for sticking together and sticking up for their former boss, but she was also aware of what their expressions might give away when one or the other of them was talking. Besides, it was more efficient to interview all three of them at once, and time was of the essence here.

"I assume you know the urgency of the situation," she began once the two men and one woman were seated. Sinclair gave a short nod, but the other two didn't respond. "We'll start with you, Agent Reeves. Tell me what Eppes said in his phone call."

The blonde agent looked straight back at her. "I assumed that you had already listened to the recording of that conversation."

She didn't blink. "I assumed that you were aware of the importance of hearing multiple points of view on a particular event or piece of evidence."

The only response was a slight frown. Reeves straightened her shoulders and began, "As you heard, the conversation began with his request not to mention him by name."

"Yet you recognized his voice right away, I presume." The other woman gave a tight nod, and she went on, "Why do you think he did that?"

If Dina hadn't been listening for it, she wouldn't have heard the slight note of condescension. "Because he didn't want me to be overheard."

"Because then you wouldn't have been able to hold a private conversation for—" She checked her notes. "For a full three minutes before reporting that he had escaped from custody."

Reeves' eyes flashed. "I reported it as soon as Agent Sinclair was available to carry the message to our supervisor."

"Mm-hmm. And during this time, you were…?" She addressed Granger, who was sitting across the table from the other two agents, with a raised eyebrow.

He gave a slight grimace and answered, "I was looking around for our supervisor."

"Mm-hmm." She didn't miss the look that Reeves shot him, nor the way Sinclair's eyes flickered over to her and back. "Agent Sinclair, what did Agent Reeves tell you when you approached?"

His voice was low and respectful. "She handed me a note outlining what had happened and instructed me to inform our superior immediately."

"Mm-hmm." She gave a pointed look to Granger and Reeves over the top of her glasses to let them know that she knew Granger had been talking b.s. just now, but that she wasn't going to call them on it. She knew they had been stalling for time, and they knew she knew it. But persecuting either of them wasn't going to help with her goal of finding Don Eppes. Right now, that was all that mattered.

"Did he mention that he was armed?" She looked around the table, carefully watching their expressions at the sudden change in topic.

All three looked unsure, but it was Reeves who spoke. "He said that one of the escapees was armed, but not the other one." She lifted her chin a little. "He didn't say anything about himself."

"Do you think he was armed?" Dina fired back.

She seemed to be honestly considering the question, her gaze on the table a foot or so in front of her. "I don't think so," she said slowly. Then, sounding more certain, she went on, "Look, he knows there's going to be a whole army of people out there looking for him and two other men, one of whom _is_ armed. He's running for his life, but he's not going to hurt anyone to get away. He wouldn't want to be carrying a weapon in case they see it, shoot first, and ask questions later."

She had a point, and it sounded like a professional profiler talking, not someone covering for a friend. Except for his supposed refusal to hurt someone: a judge and jury had already seen otherwise on that. "What about for defense from that other prisoner?"

Granger broke in with his almost lazy style of speaking. "It seems to me that if they all got out of the bus without shooting each other, they're not going to do it while they're running."

"That may be, but I spoke with the officers on the scene half an hour ago. Two of the deputies' guns are missing." She looked at Reeves. "If he told you one of the prisoners was armed and one wasn't, was that his way of telling you that _he_ had the other weapon?"

Dina could see the conflict in the other woman's eyes. She wanted to defend her friend, but she was trained to think though problems like this, to make the psychological analysis that would tell them what they needed to know, not what she and her teammates wanted to hear. Finally, she said reluctantly, "I think it's highly unlikely, but…that could be the case."

Granger sat back abruptly in his seat, but didn't say anything. She gave him a sharp look before nodding at Reeves to indicate her gratitude for the other woman's honesty. "On another note," she went on after checking her list of questions, "I noticed several times in the conversation that Eppes cut you off or stopped you from saying something. His name, the fact that there was a shooting, things like that. Can you tell me why he was doing that?"

There was a hint of impatience in the reply. "I told you, he didn't want me to be overheard."

"Mm-hmm. Why do you think he called you in the first place, given that with his background as an agent, he would be aware that the conversation was being recorded?"

"Apparently he trusts me."

"Trusts you not to turn him in? You told me that you told your supervisor as soon as possible what was going on. You told him you would come and pick him up. Was that an offer to help him turn himself in, or was that an offer to hide him?"

Reeves placed her palms flat on the table and spoke in a measured tone of voice. "Are you accusing me of something, Agent Javier?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Granger tensing in his seat, and Sinclair was leaning forward a little. This was a formidable trio, and she could see how they had made a great team under Eppes. The farther she got into the investigation of his crimes, however, the more she had to wonder if it was because of, or in spite of, his leadership. They obviously believed in him wholeheartedly even now, but if they didn't watch themselves, their careers wouldn't last much longer.

"Not at all," she replied. "I'm looking for additional information beyond merely listening to the recording of your conversation."

Reeves' words were clear and sharp. "The conversation in which I quite specifically said that we could not help Don if he decided to run? That conversation, you mean?"

Dina opened her mouth to say yes, but paused at the expression on the blonde's face. She looked as though she had recalled something or solved a puzzle that had been bothering her. Then the corners of her mouth turned up briefly. She exchanged a look with Granger, but his expression had the slight air of befuddlement that Dina felt on her own features. "What is it?" she asked quickly.

Reeves' eyes shifted to meet hers as she gave her a measuring look. "I'm going to be perfectly honest with you," she said. "We all want to help Don any way we can, but within the limits of the law. We know that he's better off in custody for his own safety, as well as his and our obedience to the law. I understand why you might be concerned about our actions in this regard, but we will not be helping a fugitive." Her voice took on a small note of triumph. "And thanks to Agent Eppes, you have a recording of me telling him just that."

That was clever, Dina realized, on the part of both the agent in front of her and the one out on the lam. "The _former_ agent, you mean," she said in an undertone. She went on, "I'm going to need each of you to put together a list of contacts: family, friends, informants, anyone he might be comfortable going to for help. We're hopeful that we can bring him in before nightfall, but there is always the chance that he'll contact someone else."

"He hasn't used the phone again, has he." Granger's tone was that of a statement, not a question.

"Not as of half an hour ago, no. There are only a few small settlements near the scene of the crash, and they're being searched thoroughly as we speak. Beyond that, it's fairly rugged mountain country, pretty cold on a January night." She spoke lightly, but the meaning behind her words was clear. Any romantic notions Eppes had of living out his life as a fugitive were bound to be cut short by a night of temperatures colder than most Southern Californians were used to.

Reeves leaned forward on her elbows. "Can I ask you something, Agent Javier?" When Dina nodded, she went on, "The other two guys took off and ran. No calls for help, no consideration for the people left on the bus. Why do you think Don risked a phone call to this office?"

She took off her reading glasses and regarded the other woman. "There are a couple of possible explanations," she replied. "As I insinuated, he might have been hoping to get assistance from you." She held up a hand to ward off the incipient protest and continued, "It might be force of habit, from years of being in law enforcement. It might be an attempt to establish good behavior, although if that were the case, he should have stayed in the bus."

"Or it might be that he wanted to save the lives of the sheriff's deputies," Sinclair cut in. "Is that possibility somewhere on your list?"

The biting comment from the normally-cooperative Sinclair startled her for a moment, and she paused to reappraise him. She conceded, "It might be basic human decency, yes."

He gave a soft snort in reply.

She raised an eyebrow. "Tell me, Agent Sinclair, where do you think he's likely to go?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I'm still having a hard time accepting that straight-arrow Don Eppes is on the run." His voice turned harder. "But then, I never accepted that he murdered anyone, so there you go."

"I see." Dina paused and laid her pen down on the table. She gave each of them a measured look. "I know you all think I'm railroading an innocent man. But for a moment, look at it from my point of view. I was brought in to investigate the murder of a fine young woman whom I had the privilege of mentoring on her first assignment in Washington. The tragedy is not merely that a woman was killed, but a talented FBI agent with a world of potential in front of her."

"She was our colleague, too," Reeves said in a low, dangerous tone. "And she was our friend."

Dina gave a nod, realizing that she might have gone too far. She had wondered once or twice if her personal connection to Liz hadn't been one of the reasons she was chosen to lead this task force, to counterbalance the strong loyalty to Don Eppes that half the L.A. field office seemed to have. "I know that, and I'm sorry. But his fingerprints were on the gun that shot Liz, no one else's. She was found dead in his apartment less than an hour after the neighbors heard them shouting at each other. And she was running lead on an internal investigation into a pattern of corruption that thus far appears to trace right back to Eppes." She took a deep breath, trying not to let her anger take over. "Liz Warner was one of the best young agents I have ever had the privilege to work with, and I will not stop until I see the man who killed her paying for his crime."

There was a moment of silence. Then Granger looked up at her and quietly said, "Neither will Don."

She pressed her lips together. "You've all worked with him for what: two, three years? People can be much deeper and more complex than you think. Just because you didn't see it coming doesn't mean it wasn't there."

"That's ridiculous." Reeves' voice was flat and cold. "No one who knows Don Eppes thinks he's capable of any of the crimes he's been accused of, especially murder. Somehow you've failed to take that into account in your investigation."

"Let me tell all of you a story." Dina folded her hands in front of her on the desk and recited the facts in a straightforward tone. "One of the first cases on which I was the agent in charge was a serial killer, a man who had strangled eight young women in Ohio. We had a suspect with fairly strong physical evidence matching him to one of the crime scenes, but everyone we interviewed said, 'Oh no, it couldn't be Sean. He's not like that, he would never do anything like that.' He was released on bail based in large part on a plethora of these character witnesses." She fixed Reeves with her gaze. "Two weeks later, I came home to find him waiting in my apartment. I was about sixty seconds away from being his ninth victim." She still had nightmares of the scarf pulling tight around her throat, cutting off her air supply just as her partner burst through the door. "So don't tell me about how personal anecdotes and opinions are a counterbalance to hard, solid physical evidence."

There was silence for a moment. Then Reeves said, "I'm sorry you had to go through that, but you know that the Bureau makes us go through a battery of psychological tests and reviews on a regular basis to make sure we're mentally fit. We've all trusted Don with our lives on multiple occasions, Liz included."

"And I also know that this is irrelevant to the topic at hand. A jury has already found Eppes guilty; all I'm trying to do is bring him into custody." She rose to her feet. "I'll need those lists of contacts within the hour." Then she swept out of the room, feeling their eyes boring into her from behind.

They didn't have to like her, but they did have to cooperate.


	5. 2b: The Road I'm On

A/N: For those of you asking where Don is, remember to watch the timestamps as you read. Chapter 1 and Chapter 2 (up to this point) take place before the Prologue. That said, this might be a Don-centric story, but it's not always in his POV.

DreamBrother gets a cookie for the Javier/Javert connection! Keep your eyes open for more people, places, and things that look familiar…

Disclaimer and acknowledgments in the Prologue.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Saturday, January 12, 2008  
12:55 PM  
Santa Barbara Mountains

Twenty-four hours after her discussion with Eppes' former teammates, Dina was digging her boots into the trail a little harder, pushing herself to move faster. Around the curves of the trail, she could see a figure up ahead of her about a quarter of a mile, and she had a good idea that it was the quarry she sought. She was almost there, she could feel it.

Yesterday's sweep of the houses and other buildings off the 101 had yielded one fugitive: the African-American man who surrendered in the evening after an hour-long standoff and turned out to be unarmed. He had been unable to verify Eppes' story about what happened on the bus; he had apparently hightailed it out of there as soon as possible. So now the manhunt was down to two targets. The morning clouds had been too low for a helicopter to be of much use, so they were limited to more old-fashioned methods. On the bright side, the clouds kept the news choppers away as well.

Fortunately, they had witnesses. A pair of backpackers who had come down to the 101 late that morning had been startled to see their car half-buried by debris and a handful of police, FBI agents, and reporters milling around at the bottom of the trail. When they identified the mug shot of Don Eppes as the person who'd passed them earlier that morning heading uphill, their eyes got huge. "He's a murderer?" the young woman had exclaimed, shuddering.

"What was he carrying?" Dina asked. "Any kind of weapons, any food or water?"

She could see both of them thinking hard, straining to recall the details of an incidental encounter with someone they had assumed was another peaceful nature lover like themselves. The woman shook her head. "He wasn't carrying anything. I thought that was kind of strange, 'cause he was pretty far up the trail, but I figured he was one of those trail runners who didn't want to be weighed down."

"I know he didn't have a map, 'cause he asked us where the trail went." The young man sported a deep tan even in mid-January. _God, I miss California_, Dina thought. "He said he wasn't lost, but he hadn't been on this part of the trail before. He kinda joked that you couldn't really get lost when the ocean was visible, 'cause you always knew where south was, but it sounded like he'd been wandering around for a while without knowing where to go."

"Where did you tell him it went?" she asked, holding her breath.

"Uh, let me show you." He swung the daypack off his shoulders and opened the outermost pocket, pulling out a well-worn trail map. "Here." He unfolded it and laid it on the hood of the police car next to them. "The trail branches off, and one part goes back down to the main road. He said he'd already been that way, and he wanted to go the other way." He paused and thought about what he'd just said. "Whoa. He was trying to get away from you guys, wasn't he?"

"Where does this other route go?" Dina traced the line with her finger. The trail appeared to switchback up the mountainside, intersecting with a fire road before eventually dropping over the other side near Lake Casitas.

"Oh, it kind of dinks around in the mountains, but it eventually comes down into Casitas Springs." The girl leaned over and pointed at the squiggly line of the fire road. "We've parked up here before and hiked back down. It might be faster for you than hiking up after him."

Dina gave them both a warm smile. "Thank you so much. You've been extremely helpful."

A CHP officer had stepped in to take a more detailed statement while she dodged the reporters and hopped in her SUV, heading farther up the coast to look for the road they had indicated. She unfolded her own map of the area across the steering wheel, fighting to read it while staying on the road, something her mother would have a fit about if she knew. By the time she turned off the 101 to Route 150 and cut back to the east, she felt she had a pretty good handle on how far Eppes could have gotten given the terrain and his likely physical condition. She'd still be behind him if she parked where the couple had indicated, but she would have gained half a day's walking in an hour's time.

While driving, she had phoned the search coordinator and requested backup, telling them where to meet her. They wouldn't be there for at least half an hour, the dispatcher told her; the other remaining escapee was cornered in a garage in Carpenteria, and all available units were being sent there. She wished them luck, checked that her weapon was loaded and secure, and set off up the trail.

According to the topographic map she had, the altitude was about 2200 feet above sea level. Not terribly high, but since she had been literally at sea level less than an hour ago, the change was noticeable. She paused after about half an hour to make a quiet call on her cell and verify that backup was on its way. She was pleased to hear there were searchers coming from both ends of the trail; if she didn't catch up to Eppes first, the men and women coming from the other way surely would. Still she pushed on, looking in all directions, trying to catch a glimpse of her quarry.

There. She froze in her tracks and leaned back against the rocky outcropping next to her. Maybe a quarter of a mile ahead, someone was slowly making their way up a switchback. As she watched, he paused for breath, resting his hands on his thighs. He straightened up, looked down over the way that he had come, and pressed onward.

She couldn't be sure it was Eppes, but it was pretty likely. The dark clothing he was wearing matched the description the two hikers had provided, though it wasn't the clothing he had torn off the deputy in the smashed bus. She checked her Glock one more time and set off, now paying attention to keeping her footsteps as quiet as possible.

The vegetation was quite thick here, chaparral that would be tinder-dry in the summer but now smelled sweetly of sage and sunshine, even with the low clouds overhead. The dark reddish-brown manzanita branches twined around each other, adorned with thick, glossy jade leaves. She'd hiked these mountains, or ones similar to them, many times in her youth. It had been years, but the pleasant scent brought the memories back to her. She'd have to try and get up here again before she went back to Washington, since it looked like her time in L.A. would soon be drawing to a close.

Soon she was at the same switchback where she had just seen Eppes. From the periodic glimpses she got through the vegetation, she was definitely gaining ground. The trick was going to be to get close enough to get the jump on him without giving her presence away. The loose rock all over the trail would make that difficult, but she thought she could manage.

The trail curved inwards, crossing a damp patch that indicated a seasonal stream. Her foot slipped a little on the wet rock, sending a shower of pebbles down the hillside. She silently cursed and halted mid-step, whipping her head upwards to see if he'd heard.

He was half-visible above and to the left of her, his dark shirt standing out against a white patch of rock. He was close enough that she could make out his features and the sudden fear that crossed them. They stared at each other for a moment, the recognition settling in.

Then he bolted.

She tore up the trail, no longer caring about maintaining quiet or anything but keeping her footing and moving as quickly as possible. Her breath came harder, but she called on the long-distance running she had done in high school and college, taking deeper breaths and concentrating on pumping her arms and legs. She skidded on another wet patch of rock and flung herself forward, stumbling but keeping her balance. The drop-off to her left was steep but not deadly, although a tumble would mean losing her chance at catching up to her target. The distance continued to narrow, as she had known it would. He'd spent the night out in the open, probably without anything to eat or drink. It was only adrenaline keeping him going, and sooner or later that would run out.

She dashed down a short straightaway and slowed to round a bend, pausing to draw her weapon in case he was waiting on the other side. When she rounded the corner, he was twenty feet away, his back to her, looking up at the slope above him. Then he turned and started to move again.

"Hold it right there!" Dina extended her hands in front of her, weapon trained squarely on his back. He froze in his tracks, pebbles skittering away off the edge of the trail as he came to a halt. She didn't give him time to think, snapping, "Hands up! Now!" and hoping he couldn't hear her gasping for air.

Slowly she took a step forward, followed by another as his hands rose in the air. A gust of wind lifted the collar on her coat, tickling her cheek, and she impatiently brushed it back down before resuming her two-handed grip. The scent of sage brushed by her nostrils, carried along on the breeze. She was only a couple of steps behind him now. "Don't move," she barked as her footsteps continued to crunch on the rocky ground beneath her. She looked him over carefully. _Huh_, she thought. _Reeves was right. No weapon._

His hands, held level with his ears, were trembling a little. His head was slightly bowed forward as if in defeat. Well, he _was_ defeated. He might have had a short run at freedom, but now she was here to put him back behind bars where he belonged. She was too professional to taunt him out loud, but she couldn't help but savor the moment, getting her hands on the creep who had murdered Liz and dared to keep proclaiming his innocence.

"On your knees," she snapped as she came within reach. "Then put your hands behind you."

He didn't say a word, but started to drop to one knee. She could read the tight set of his shoulders and the tension they were carrying. Well, running from the law would do that to you. He'd worked Fugitive Recovery, she knew from his file. A man like that would know all too well how to avoid the authorities. She was lucky she'd been able to get up here so soon and get him into custody.

She reached behind her with one hand to remove the handcuffs from her belt. Another gust of wind came along, and she heard a crashing sound coming from the hillside above her. She turned to look, wary of a rock tumbling down the sharp slope to match the ones already strewn about the trail. The crash turned into a rustle, and then silence.

And then something slammed into her side and sent her sprawling back against the slope. The ground next to the trail was nearly vertical here, and it felt like running into a wall. It took a second for her to realize that it was not a boulder from above that she should have worried about, but the wanted criminal in front of her. By that time, she had already dropped the handcuffs and lunged to put a second hand on the gun that was being torn out of her grasp. She had almost succeeded when he twisted his body so he was leaning against her, pressing her into the rock and squeezing her arm between his elbow and his side. She tried to stomp on his foot, but he shuffled out of the way, his fingers closing inexorably over hers.

She'd already lost the possibility of a quick response, but she could still call on her self-defense training. Problem was, the man she was fighting knew all the same moves, and how to avoid them. She didn't dare let go of the gun to drive an elbow or a fist into anywhere sensitive, but in another few seconds, his desperation-fueled strength and larger size were going to leave her helpless. She tried scratching at his right hand, wrapped around the barrel of the gun, but he only took advantage of the opportunity to shift his grip farther back to the handle of the weapon.

Then, with a grunt, he wrested the gun all the way out of her grip, spinning as he stepped back to point it at her.

She froze, her back pressed against the nearly-sheer rock face with nowhere to go. Eppes was only a foot away, aiming her gun directly at her chest. An icy cold ball formed in her stomach, and she knew her fear must be showing on her face. She knew the facts of his case better than any case in years, had uncovered much of the evidence herself, had memorized his entire file. She knew what he was capable of. And it scared her to death.

"Put your hands on top of your head." His voice was rough, lower than when she had interrogated him months ago, as if it had become hoarse from disuse. "How many are there?"

She nervously licked her lips as she obeyed. "How many what?" she stalled.

He shook his head impatiently, but the gun remained steady. "How many more are behind you?"

She looked straight at him and thought about lying, saying that she was the only one and that the rest of the search party had taken a different route, so that he would return the way she had come and run smack into her colleagues. But she realized that his brown eyes were regarding her as carefully as she was watching him, judging what she said, and that he would know if she was making something up. "There are three behind me and four coming down from Casitas. They'll be here any minute."

He gave a slight smirk, as if he had heard the bravado behind her words and knew that the remaining searchers weren't right behind her, but a quarter mile or more away. _Of course he knows it's bravado_, she thought. _He's probably bluffed his way out of situations like this himself._ Her eyes flickered down to the gun he held, and she wondered if Liz had been this terrified when she was about to die, when she had realized her lover was about to become her killer.

He must have seen something in her eyes, because he took a half step back as his brow furrowed. "You really think I killed her, don't you?" he asked harshly.

She raised her chin. The smart thing to do was to say that it didn't matter, that she was only there to bring him in. But she'd read the evidence, she'd heard all the testimony in court, and based on what he had done to Liz and what had been done to the deputy back at the prison bus, there was no doubt in her mind. "Yes," she replied brusquely.

He looked her over more carefully, and she felt the same tense line across her shoulders that she had seen in his. He was sizing up his prey, she thought, like a snake waiting to strike. God, how had this man been an FBI agent, and no one had seen it?

When he spoke again, his tone was completely different: quieter, and almost as if he were talking to himself. "And you think that I'm going to kill you." It wasn't a question.

"No, it's just the altitude that's making me breathe faster," she snapped back between clenched teeth. She'd been in situations like this before, certain that she had only a few minutes or seconds more to live, and her sarcastic side always asserted itself in full force.

If she didn't know better, she would have said he looked frightened by her reply. But what did he have to be afraid of? He was the one holding the gun, about to get rid of her and make a clean getaway.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Pick those up," he said, gesturing at the handcuffs she had dropped in the struggle.

She kept a watchful eye on him as she did so. As she straightened up, he pointed at a small tree at the side of the trail. "Put your hands around it and cuff them together." He took a step backwards as he spoke, his foot carefully feeling for the side of the trail.

She did as he said, watching regretfully as he stepped out of reach, not that she would have been able to do much at gunpoint. "One dead federal agent on your conscience enough for you?" she retorted, unable to keep the sarcasm from once again shining through.

His eyes narrowed. "I didn't kill Agent Warner," he insisted, as she'd heard him say so many times before.

Only the gun still aimed in her direction kept her from rolling her eyes and saying, "Whatever." She might have grown up in the San Fernando Valley, but now was not the time to lapse into the native vernacular. Instead she gave a pointed glance at her weapon, now in a convicted killer's hand, and said in a flat tone of voice, "If you say so." Her sentence was punctuated with a click as she fastened the bracelet of the handcuffs around her left wrist.

If he caught her subtle jibe, he didn't let it show. He was retreating now, gun still pointed at her, but lower and lower as he moved away. "I didn't kill her," he repeated. Before she could reply, he turned away and ran off down the trail.

She stared after him, feeling her heart rate and breathing slow down to something approximating normal. The breeze came back and a chill ran through her as the sweat instantly cooled on her back. A hundred yards away, Eppes was swerving away from the trail, casting a glance back over his shoulder at her. He paused and as she watched, he deliberately held out her gun and dropped it on the ground. Then he headed cross-country through the chaparral and out of sight.

Dina closed her eyes and took a deep breath. That had not gone anything like what she had expected; thankfully, as it turned out. As she twisted around to try and get her handcuff key, she started replaying the encounter in her head. Maybe he hadn't wanted to fire a shot that would alert the other searchers? Maybe Liz's murder really had been a crime of passion, and he wasn't a cold-blooded killer? Maybe he didn't want a second death on his hands in case his appeal somehow went through?

The thought briefly crossed her mind that maybe Reeves and Co. were right and that he was innocent, but she brushed that off. An innocent man, especially a career federal agent, would have turned himself in and let the justice system do its work, knowing there was nothing he could do on his own. Even his experience learned from tracking fugitives wouldn't be enough to keep him out of the reach of the law for long, much less enable him to find some imaginary killer on whom to shift the blame.

She winced at the crick in her neck as her fingers dug the key out of its pocket, then gratefully released herself from the handcuffs and tucked them away again. She plucked her cell phone out, grimacing as her hand brushed the now-empty holster next to it. The searchers had to be notified that not only was Don Eppes on the loose, he was now to be considered, if not armed, at least dangerous.

The manhunt had just gotten a lot more serious.


	6. 3a: Running to Stand Still

A/N: Thanks to everyone for your reviews. Patty, you're spot on about why Don dropped the gun, and I have to give credit to my beta rittenden for suggesting that part. Alice, your criticism is definitely valid, but don't worry, Charlie will make up for it later on.

Disclaimer and acknowledgments in the Prologue.

In honor of the "The Fugitive" Season 1 DVD that arrived in my mailbox today (hooray!)...I bring you Chapter 3.

ooooooooooooooooo

Chapter 3: Running to Stand Still

Sunday, February 10, 2008  
10:13 PM  
Ontario Mills Mall, Ontario, CA

Don wrung out the mop and paused, wiping his brow. He was in top physical shape, or at least he had been before his arrest and imprisonment, but that didn't mean he was accustomed to physical labor. After nearly three weeks, he was slowly but surely getting used to it, although it still took a great deal of effort. Even more effort had to be expended on keeping his head down and learning where the surveillance cameras were and how best to avoid facing them. That left him with little room to spare for thoughts about what had happened to him over the last seven months, and at the moment, that was just the way he wanted it.

After eluding Javier near the crash site, he'd made his way around the fringes of the Los Angeles metropolitan area, finally ending up on its eastern edge in Ontario. He had been fortunate enough to see a sign advertising work with a cleaning company that contracted with the largest shopping mall in the area. When he called the number on the sign, it was soon apparent that the person he was dealing with was running a vaguely sketchy operation: when Don casually mentioned that he'd had a house fire and his Social Security card and other documents were lost, the interviewer said that wasn't a problem. Of course, without proper documentation he wouldn't be able to pay the minimum amount required by law, but he was sure "Steve" would understand. Don/Steve understood perfectly. This wasn't the only business in Southern California to make a profit off the backs of people who couldn't prove they could legally work in the U.S.

He earned enough to get a weekly room at a cheap motel down the street, a steady diet of fast food, and a change of clothes or two. The night shift suited him well; there were no members of the public to recognize him, and he soon learned that the rent-a-cops patrolling the mall were only interested in the minimum amount of work required to earn their own miserly paychecks. This wasn't a long-term solution by any means, but until he felt it was safe to try starting his own investigation into Liz's death, it would have to do.

He straightened up and caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror, wincing as he always did when he saw the blond hair sticking out from underneath his baseball cap. He had to disguise himself somehow, but every time he saw his reflection, it was a reminder that he wasn't the same person anymore. He tried to think of it as an undercover assignment, but applying the blond dye to his head in the motel bathroom had felt so final, like he was removing all traces of Don Eppes and replacing them with Steve Moffat, the name he'd given his employer.

Besides, undercover assignments had never been his strength.

He trudged back out of the bathroom, working his way down the long corridor. The mall was laid out like the Greek letter theta, one large ring bisected by a straight line through the middle. The middle corridor was a blank-walled passageway to the back doors of shops and to the public restrooms and telephones. He mopped his way along the corridor, remembering to tilt his head forward as he got closer to the end so that the visor of his cap would shield his face from the camera mounted there.

A door opened in the corridor in front of him, and he looked up, startled. "Hey, Steve."

"Hey, Gina," he murmured in response. The young woman worked at the smoothie shop where the hallway he was in met the main mall passageway. She was always friendly, the only mall employee who acknowledged his presence instead of walking around him like he was a piece of furniture. Not that he didn't mind being left alone, of course, but it was a little unnerving to feel like he was blending in perfectly with the walls.

"Here, I saved this for you." She held out a plastic cup with a straw, the fluorescent lights reflecting off her glasses so that he couldn't see her eyes. "Another mistake."

He looked dubiously at the cup, the bottom half of which was filled with small dark brown balls. "What kind of mistake?"

"Kid ordered pina colada before his mother remembered he's allergic to pineapple." She took a sip out of her own drink, which was a light pink color with the same brown substance in the bottom. "I can't get enough of this boba stuff, or bubble tea, or whatever it's called. It's impossible to find in Manitoba."

"Is that where you're from?" He accepted the drink and took a sip.

"Haven't I told you that?" She was usually still closing up her shop when he passed by on his nightly cleaning, and they'd had a few short conversations, although thankfully she hadn't asked any questions of him beyond his name.

"No, you haven't." He took another sip as he surreptitiously looked around in a customary scan of his surroundings that had become automatic. It was like the time right before a takedown, he realized, like those final few moments of waiting and watching before you gave the go-ahead and your team swarmed in to make the arrest or storm the building. Except that he wasn't part of any team, he was the likely target. And those tense moments were what it was like _all the time_.

"Yeah, I've only been here a couple of months. I came to visit a friend and liked it so much I decided to move. Haven't regretted it since."

He slurped down the rest of the drink, avoiding the tapioca balls that threatened to come up the extra-wide straw. "I guess January in California beats January in Manitoba."

"Hell, yeah." She pulled the shop door shut behind her and turned the key in the lock. "Well, I'm off. Meg's waiting to chat. See you tomorrow."

"Right." He tossed the empty drink container in the garbage can he was wheeling along behind him. She'd mentioned this Meg friend before, someone she regularly chatted online with, from Mississippi or Alabama, he couldn't remember which. He found it hard to believe that she'd still be up, considering the time zone difference, but maybe she worked strange hours like he did. He'd gotten used to seeing an hour of daylight when he stumbled back to the motel after work, and a couple of hours in the evening once he woke up. Not much of a way to live, but every time he started to grumble to himself, he thought of the alternative.

He looked at his watch. In an hour and a half, it would be February 11, the one-month anniversary of the bus crash that had given him his freedom back, if not his life. He took a deep breath and resumed mopping. Somehow, he didn't feel like celebrating.

ooooooooooooooooo

Monday, February 11, 2008  
10:32 A.M.  
Lorden Hall, CalSci

"Knock, knock." The onomatopoetic words were reinforced with a tapping on the doorframe.

Charlie looked up from the lecture notes he was reviewing. "Megan. Haven't seen you in a while." Instantly he felt a cold prickle of fear along his back. "Is it something about…?"

She shook her head. "No news about Don, no."

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. "I keep hoping to hear something, then hoping I don't hear anything, you know?"

She crossed the space of his office and dropped down into the chair in front of his desk. "I know what you mean. Every time Agent Javier comes by, we all tense up, and when there's nothing new, we don't know whether to be relieved or not."

"She's still around?" He had assumed that with Don out of custody, as it were, the case against him would have been postponed.

"She's leading the task force to find him," Megan muttered. "Seems to be taking it personally that she couldn't bring him in right after the crash."

Charlie felt a spark of pride at the thought of his brother eluding the woman who was supposed to be one of the best agents in the FBI. Then the same conflict that tore at him every time he thought about Don's escape reared its head, and he slumped a little in his chair. "I just can't believe that he did it." At Megan's quick look he went on, "Not that he _did it_ did it. I just can't believe that he ran away."

She shrugged, her expression troubled. "It's hard to say what any of us would do in that situation," she replied. "Don isn't the type to sit still when he could be doing something, and you could say this is the extreme example of that."

"I know." He cast his eyes down to his desk, the thoughts that had been troubling him for the past four weeks suddenly springing to his lips. "I feel like…like he ran out on us. On me. Like he couldn't trust us to help him get out of this mess."

"He can't, Charlie," came her quiet reply. "Not legally, at any rate."

He met her gaze, forcing his eyes to keep from moving to the postcard sitting on the corner of his desk, half buried under a pile of texts on hyperbolic geometry. He would have memorized the words if there was anything to memorize, but the blank back of the postcard had nothing on it besides his own address, written in a hand he knew nearly as well as his own. The generic scene of Los Angeles on the front meant nothing to him besides the proof that Don was alive and at least well enough to get to a post office and send this small sign of reassurance. He knew that legally he was obligated to report it as evidence, but he stubbornly refused. For one, Don wouldn't be so dumb as to still be in the place where the card was postmarked. But mostly, he couldn't bear the thought of letting go of the one tangible piece of evidence he had that his big brother was okay.

"So, uh, what are you doing here?" he asked, clearing his throat. "Not that it's not nice to see you, but…"

She gave a half-smile that looked more like a grimace. "Javier's team has finished going through all of Don's old cases, and apparently David and Colby and I are in the clear." She rolled her eyes at the last part of the sentence and went on, "So we've been assigned a new case: bank fraud. I was hoping…" she trailed off as her eyes took on a slightly pleading expression. "I was hoping you could adapt one of your previous algorithms for this case."

Charlie took a deep breath. He'd known this moment would come, and he still wasn't ready for it. "Megan, I don't know," he said, shaking his head. "The quarter barely started here, and I'm in the middle of a new project with Sally in the statistics department, and it's really not a good time."

"I think Larry's mentioned her…is that the one who never stops talking about her granddaughter?" Charlie nodded, and she was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "If you're not comfortable working with the FBI, you can say so."

"All right. I'm not comfortable working with the FBI."

She raised an eyebrow at his quick response. "You've thought about this already, I take it."

"A lot, actually." He stared out the window, watching the sunlight play over the dappled bark of the eucalyptus trees on the other side of the glass. "And I know that I _should_, but…" The thought of resuming his work with the FBI felt like a betrayal of his brother. Even if the cases had nothing to do with him, and he knew they couldn't with conflict of interest rules, he still couldn't bear the thought of working with the organization that had treated Don so cruelly.

"We can bring the work to you," she interjected. "You don't have to go into the office if you don't want to."

Charlie shook his head. "It's not that. It's more like…" He thought for a moment and returned his gaze to her. "Look, you and I know that Don didn't do any of those things." She nodded, and he went on, "But someone did. And they're still in the FBI. They're still in that building." His voice started to rise. "They're continuing on with their lives and their crimes while Don is God knows where. And if I lift a finger to do any kind of work for you, I have no way of knowing if those bastards are benefiting from it."

Megan's expression was weary, and he was suddenly struck by how tired she looked. "I know exactly how you feel, Charlie," she said softly.

He paused. Of course she would. It was even worse for her and the rest of Don's team because they couldn't get away from the office or choose not to do the work the way he could. "I'm sorry," he said just as quietly. "Of course you do."

"You know, David's talked about quitting." She looked off into the corner of his office and back. "I can't say the thought hasn't crossed my mind as well, but I don't know what else I'd do. David has a friend at the NYPD who's been trying to recruit him for years, and this time he might well succeed."

Charlie was dumbstruck. Larry hadn't said a word about any of this. "You—you'd really quit the FBI?"

"I told you, I know how you feel about the situation." She gave a half shrug. "I guess I was hoping that if you came back, it would convince David that he should stick around. You know, if Don's brother can stand to work with the Bureau, then he should be able to, too. But I understand if you don't want to do it."

Now there was a guilt trip that Dad would be proud of. He was never sure when talking to Megan what was really her and what was her psychological training knowing what buttons to push. But then again, she was so good at what she did that it was just another part of her. His eyes flickered down to the postcard. _What would you want me to do, Don?_

"I'll think about it," he finally said.

The small smile was nothing like the full-blown grins he was more familiar with from her, but it was something. "Thanks, Charlie. Give me a call when you've decided, okay?"

He nodded. "If you see Larry, tell him I won't be by for lunch today." The unspoken rest of the sentence was clear. He had a lot to think about.

With an understanding smile, Megan rose and left the office.

ooooooooooooooooo

Tuesday, February 12, 2008  
4:45 P.M.  
Palm Breeze Motel, Ontario, CA

Don awoke with a start, flipping the sheet off his body as he sat bolt upright and froze for a moment, listening. When the slam of a car door came from the motel parking lot, he slowly rose and crossed to the window, twitching the heavy curtain enough to look out. It was an elderly couple shuffling to the motel office, and he exhaled in relief. There were no police cars in the lot, no dark-suited FBI agents like the ones who had been haunting his dreams, dragging him back to a life in prison that would end with the executioner's chair.

He let the curtain fall and checked the clock. It wasn't likely that he'd fall back asleep now; it never was, after one of his nightmares. At least he was no longer having the dream where he saw Liz's dead body and looked down to find himself holding the gun, her blood spattered over his clothing. At some point during the trial, when he was being beaten down by the prosecutor's insistence of his guilt, he'd started dreaming that it was true, that he really was the one who had shot her. He'd tried to sleep as little as possible after that, giving him a haggard appearance that probably hadn't won him any points with the jury. But eventually, exhaustion had gotten the better of him, and he'd managed a dreamless sleep for as long as the trial lasted.

He didn't want to think about the dreams he'd had after the verdict was read.

Now, it was back to the usual nightmares consisting of the half-remembered bits that his brain insisted on pulling out into the light of day: the last words he and Liz had exchanged in the heat of anger, the ensuing long walk around the block in the hot July sun to clear his head, the face of the man he saw coming out of his apartment building, the strange feeling he'd had climbing the stairs to his apartment, and the horror of what he had found inside.

That final part would remain crystal clear in his memory, he knew. In the following hours, while talking to the police and the FBI, while submitting himself and his home to the extra-thorough investigation afforded a dead law enforcement officer, he hadn't been able to stop seeing the image of her sprawled across the bed, her beautiful eyes closed, her still chest marked with two neat holes right over her heart.

By the time he emerged from the initial shock of grief some time that night, it was apparent that things had taken a wrong turn somewhere. The grim looks that the cops sent his way were one clue, their expressions matching what he had felt on his own face looking at an accused husband or boyfriend at a murder scene. Then the questions turned harder, the tone designed to break down a story rather than elicit information. He started having to repeat himself, and once the same question was asked a third time, he knew. They thought he was guilty.

It was then that he asked for a lawyer.

Days later, when he'd given the same consistent story over and over, he remembered thinking that they had to give up at some point. He'd given them a detailed description of the man he had seen exiting his building and had later seen from the window of his apartment after finding Liz. The first glimpse hadn't been enough, but when he saw the man the second time, climbing into a car and driving away three stories below and out of reach, he had burned his features into memory. He remembered thinking that it shouldn't be taking so long to process the information, that the face of a killer as skilled as this one (for the lack of forensic evidence was clearly the sign of a professional) would have to be in a database somewhere.

As it turned out, the sketch did match a record on file: Alex Brock, a known professional killer with six suspected hits to his name. Date of death: August 2005.

After that, things had rapidly gone downhill. Eventually he had stopped answering questions, no matter how many times Geraldina Javier or one of her teammates asked them. He would only give her the same answers, and she would only refuse to believe him. She wanted to know why his gun was the one that killed Liz if he hadn't been the one to pull the trigger; he said he had left it behind when he went for his walk and that Brock must have taken advantage and used it. She asked why he and Liz had fought loudly enough for the neighbors to take note; he said she was unhappy with his decision to make their relationship public and that he was unhappy with the way she seemed to be avoiding him. She asked if he knew about the investigation Liz had been tasked with, looking into corruption allegations at the L.A. field office, and he said no. She asked why everything in that investigation seemed to point at him as the culprit, and he said he had no idea.

He asked her, once, how he could have shot Liz when his hands had no gunshot residue on them when they were tested at the scene. She replied that there was bleach and alcohol under the kitchen sink, and that as an FBI agent he would know full well how to remove GSR from his hands. He asked her, once, if her line of questioning meant that she thought Liz had only gotten close to him to further her own investigation, and she hadn't replied.

After that, he stopped asking questions.

Even now, he knew there was no way that was true. Even now, knowing that Liz's assignment to the L.A. field office had been for the underlying purpose of ferreting out the perpetrator behind a web of bribery and evidence tampering that had led to more than one guilty party going free and correspondingly large sums of money being deposited in an offshore bank account, he knew she really had fallen for him. Their weekend on the coast had shown him that, from the happiness in her eyes as they walked along the beach hand-in-hand to the intimate way she held him when they fell asleep, exhausted and satiated.

Which meant her investigation had _not_ named him as the guilty party. Which meant someone else in the FBI was covering up their involvement and framing him, after they had taken out Liz. He'd tried to get that word out to his team, but soon realized they had been forbidden from coming within a mile of him and his case. The few brief conversations he had with them told him that they were trying, that Charlie was working night and day trying to figure out how so much evidence had been planted so quickly, but that Javier wasn't willing to listen to mathematical probabilities and algorithms when she had fingerprints and bank deposits to point to.

Don shook his head, not wanting the recollections to weigh him down any further. He had his legs under him after three weeks of gaining familiarity with this place and this routine. His face had disappeared from the nightly news and the morning paper. Now, it was time to start thinking about how to get his life back.

As he showered and got ready for work, he formulated a plan. He would need Internet access, a temporary e-mail address, and that little trick Larry had shown him about how to route a message through a series of IP addresses to keep it untraceable. Alex Brock would be his starting point, the man whom he _knew_ he had seen leaving his apartment after killing Liz, even if the file said he had seen a ghost. Whoever the truly guilty party was inside the FBI, they could have changed that information as easily as they had created an offshore account in his name and filled it with ill-gotten gains. He'd need to trace that man's movements starting with his last known whereabouts in order to make a connection between him and someone in the Bureau.

And Alex Brock and the person who had hired him had better watch out.

oooooooooooooooooo

Wednesday, February 13, 2008  
2:22 P.M.  
Bixel Street, Los Angeles, CA

The Los Angeles FBI field office is located in a strange kind of neighborhood directly across the 110 freeway from downtown, sitting among a mixture of vacant lots, new high-rise luxury condos, rundown motels, and a smattering of light industrial buildings. Cars have been known to park for days along the street, with or without occupants, while agents drive past them to the Bureau parking garage. Even people whose lives depend on their excellent observational skills are prone to passing over without note what they see on the daily commute.

A silver Cavalier sat by the side of the road, a red-haired man in the front seat. He had pulled out of the FBI garage a few minutes ago, driven two blocks, and pulled over. He sat there for ten minutes, letting traffic go by and watching carefully in his rearview mirror for any indication that he had been followed or observed. When enough time had passed, he relaxed and lifted his cell phone, dialing a number he had memorized long ago but never stored in the phone's memory. After three rings, it picked up. "Hello?"

"Can you talk?" Secure in his own car, he waited to hear the other man's reply.

He could faintly hear in a gentle Southern accent, "Excuse me, ah have to take this call," followed by a woman saying, "Of course, Director." In a few seconds, there was the sound of a door closing. Then the man spoke. "Ah take it you have news for me."

"There's been a confirmed sighting. They'll be taking him in tonight."

"Where?"

"Ontario."

"Canada? He got that far?"

"No, he's in Ontario, California."

"You mean he's been undah your nose this enti-ah time?" The man's accent strengthened with his emotion.

"Hey, there's thirteen million people in this city; gimme a break. Besides, Javier came through for us."

The other man snorted. "I'll believe it when he's back in his cell. At least now we won't have to worry about him winnin' his appeal."

"Not with his recent actions, no." There was a pause. "I don't suppose there's any way to speed up the execution date."

"No, no, that would be rash. Don't worry, they'll be doublin' the security on him once they get him back. He won't be goin' anywhere."

"Good."

"Say, where's he been all this time, anyway?"

"Apparently, working as a janitor at a mall." The red-haired man gave a soft snort. "Next time some junior agent complains about spending hours scanning surveillance tapes, you can tell him that's how they caught the most wanted man in Los Angeles."

"It's always nice when hard work pays off." The other man was silent for a moment. "You'll call me as soon as it's done, right?"

"I'll be there on the scene and call you when he's in custody."

"Good. Ah'll be looking forward to it." With no further ado, he hung up the phone.

The man in the car flipped his cell phone shut and stared out the windshield at the L.A. skyline. Just a few hours, he thought, and Don Eppes would be safely shut away, his brief flight a memory, and his guilt permanently assured.

The thought made him smile.

oooooooooooooooo

A/N: The FBI building in Los Angeles is actually out west on Wilshire Boulevard; in this story, it's set where they film the show, right next to downtown.


	7. 3b: Running to Stand Still

A/N: Sorry to disappoint those of you looking for a one-armed man; everyone in this story has all of their limbs intact. I hope you'll keep reading anyway…

Disclaimer and acknowledgments in the Prologue.

ooooooooooooooooooo

10:05 P.M.  
Ontario Mills Mall

Don walked into the mall at his usual time, pulled his coveralls on over his clothing, and got to work. The usual last-minute straggling shoppers left, the first wave of employees followed, and soon it was quiet except for the sounds of cashiers totaling up their registers and the food court workers closing down their shops for the night.

He was vacuuming across from a record store when a noise made him pause. Listening to his instincts, he shut down the vacuum and pretended to fiddle with it. He heard the footsteps and jingling keys of a security guard about twenty yards away, and he tilted his head to look out of the corner of his eye. The man had a walkie-talkie to his lips and was looking right at him. He shifted his position as if to examine the vacuum cleaner more closely and looked in the other direction. Down at the far end of the mall, he could see another guard moving in his direction, also speaking on his radio.

Don froze for a moment and considered his options. Mall security didn't actually carry weapons; they were trained to call the local police if necessary. Unfortunately, the fact that they were both talking on their radios indicated to him that they were already in contact with at least their supervisor, if not the police. He knew that making a break for it now meant he couldn't stop going until he was outside not just the mall, but outside the whole city, outside California. If he ran, any hope he had had of looking up Alex Brock had just gone up in smoke. But if he didn't run, any hope he had of staying out of prison could be as fragile as a wisp of smoke itself.

"Hey, are you Steve Moffat?" the nearer guard suddenly called, now only about thirty feet away.

That clinched it. In a split second, Don sized up the other man's physical condition, distance from him and the closest exit, and level of alertness. Then, taking a deep breath, he darted to the side, keeping low for a moment before straightening up and dashing past the other man's outstretched hand and startled, "Hey!"

He raced down the aisle of the mall, weaving around pushcarts locked up for the night and benches and planters scattered about to deliberately break up shoppers' lines of sight and draw their attention to nearby stores. He used the uneven pattern to his advantage, weaving back and forth and staying low. He was sure the hefty security guard behind him wouldn't be able to keep up, but he was also sure that within a few minutes, he would have reinforcements.

Sure enough, as he raced past the short hallway leading to the northernmost mall exit, he saw a glint of light as the doors swung open and admitted three people in dark suits. His blood ran cold. Those weren't local cops. Those were federal agents.

He hurdled a bench and ran on down the corridor, hearing the shouts from the agents entering the building as they spotted him. He was nearing the food court, and off on his right would be the corridor that cut through the length of the building. His sneakers squeaked on the tile as he made a sharp right. Pouring on the speed, he charged down the hall, hoping that none of the other cleaning staff or mall employees were around. He flew past the back doors to the shops, the janitorial closets, and the public restrooms, all blessedly devoid of people. There was no time to relax, however, because he was approaching the end of the corridor and had no way of knowing whether or not there were more agents who had entered the mall from another direction.

Suddenly, a door swung open a few feet ahead of him, and he swerved sharply, almost crashing into the wall. It was the back door to the smoothie shop, and Gina stood there, holding it open. "Come on," she hissed. "Get in here!"

Too startled to question her, he ducked inside, and she quietly closed the door behind him. "Here," she said, pulling him towards a door in the cramped back room of the shop. "You can hide in here."

Don had to pant for a minute to catch his breath, but once he could speak, he said, "What are you doing?"

She looked towards the front of the shop, where the lights were out, but the light from the mall corridor still shone in over the counter. "I came back because I'd forgotten my keys, and I heard someone on the guard's radio talking about you, about making sure you didn't get away." She tugged him towards the door again. "So I'm making sure you get away."

He straightened up and shook his head. "I can't let you do this."

"Yes, you can," she insisted, opening the door. It led to a tiny bathroom, barely large enough to turn around in. "Hurry up!"

He turned his head at the sound of footsteps pounding down the corridor he'd come from. "If they ask, you let them in," he said in a low voice, looking her in the eye.

"Just go!" she hissed as she gave him a shove before pulling the door shut.

Inside, he saw that there was absolutely nowhere to hide should his pursuers ask to look inside the shop. But by the faint orange glow of the light switch, he could see above him a dropped ceiling with institutional white panels. He climbed up onto the sink and pushed the panels aside. There looked to be enough room above, so reaching through and grabbing onto whatever he could in the ductwork and pipes above, he pulled himself through and laid spread-eagle on the upper side of the ceiling to distribute his weight, carefully sliding the panel back into place.

A bare second later, there was a knock on the outer door. He heard it open, then Gina's voice saying, "Can I help you?"

"We're looking for someone." The woman's voice was too familiar, one he had last heard on a hillside in the Santa Barbara Mountains, and he winced. "A janitor who works here in the mall." There was a rustle of paper. "Have you seen this man tonight?"

There was a pause, and Don could envision Gina examining a photograph of his mug shot. "I know who he is," she said, "but I haven't seen him tonight."

"Really." Javier's voice was sharp. "Who entered through this door a minute ago?"

"That was me," Gina answered steadily. "I forgot my keys and had to come back."

"Then you don't mind if we look around inside." The voice was one Don barely recognized, but he did remember the face. Agent Chad Danvers had joined the L.A. office about the same time Megan and Colby had, although Don had only worked with him once or twice.

"Sure." He heard a creak as the door swung farther open. "Not like it's going to take you long to look around."

He heard the sound of footsteps as the two agents entered the store, and he held his breath. There were a few minutes of rustling and scraping as they looked around the tiny back room. Not surprisingly, Javier shortly asked, "What's in there?"

"It's the bathroom," Gina replied. He could hear the slightest amount of tension in her voice, and he only hoped that the other agents didn't hear it as well.

Without another sound, the door swung open. He fought the urge to close his eyes and play ostrich, instead straining to hear any sound from below without moving a muscle. A tense moment later, the door closed again, and he allowed himself a quiet release of breath in lieu of a sigh of relief.

"Is there anything else?" Gina asked. "Because I was really supposed to be home half an hour ago."

He heard a slight crackle of static, and then Agent Danvers saying, "There's a report of someone running through the parking lot. They think it might be him."

"Go," said Javier. "I'll be there in a second." He heard the sound of the outer door opening and closing, and there was Javier's voice again, this time less business-like and more conciliatory. "Ma'am, do you know who this man is and why we want to talk to him?"

"No," was Gina's abrupt reply, the clear undertone of _and I don't care_ coming through. Don felt a grin coming on in spite of himself, wishing he could see the look on Javier's face.

"Well, not to put too fine a point on it, he escaped from prison after being convicted of murder. Of a young woman about your age."

There was a pause. "Really?" came Gina's reply in a tiny voice.

Don felt his stomach sink. That was it. She'd thought she was hiding someone in trouble with immigration, not a convicted killer. Any second now she'd swing the door open and point out his hiding place. He tensed himself to move, maybe to swing down on Javier when she came in.

But Gina was still talking. "Geez, it's not enough to worry about the idiots who want to come in and steal the day's take from a freaking smoothie bar, now we have to worry about murderers running around the mall? I need a new job."

Her words sank in, but he didn't relax. She was far too calm, considering whom she was sheltering. Javier, however, seemed to buy it, because she said, "All right, then let me walk you out to your car."

"No, it's okay, you've got a murderer to catch, right?"

"No, really, I insist." That was delivered in a tone that would brook no argument. Don silently willed Gina to accept, so that he could slip out of here before she got into any trouble. He heard her reluctantly agree, and the two women left the store, Gina's key turning in the lock.

He waited for what he judged was at least five minutes before quietly sliding the ceiling panel away. He waited for another five minutes before carefully lowering himself through and replacing the panel. Then he let another five minutes go by before reaching for the doorknob.

A key scraped in the outside lock, and he froze. He waited, pressed against the door, ready to take advantage of the element of surprise should it be a security guard or one of the FBI agents. The outer door creaked open and clicked quietly shut, bracketing the sound of one person's footsteps entering the store. "Don?" came Gina's urgent whisper. "Are you in here?"

He opened the door a crack, then froze. What had she called him?

"Good." She pulled the door open the rest of the way. Even the dim light from the mall hallway on the other side of the store was enough to make him blink after nearly half an hour in near-total darkness. "My car is outside Loading Dock Two. The trunk is open; go ahead and climb in and shut it behind you. I'll be right out."

He shook his head and spoke quietly. "I'm not going to endanger you any more, Gina. I appreciate you hiding me, you have no idea how much, but I can't let you keep it up now that you know who I am."

She blinked at him. "I've known who you are from the first moment I saw you," she replied in her customary blunt style.

He was dumbfounded. "You…you what?" How could that be? He'd been here for three weeks, had talked with her on and off that entire time. How could she have known who he was and not said anything? And if she could see through him that easily, how come his cover hadn't been blown long before now?

She was shaking her head. "I'll explain later. Just go," and she gave him a push towards the door.

Still taken aback, he followed her instructions and crept out through the corridor to the cross-hallway that led to the loading dock. His nerves were on alert the entire time, but he didn't see a soul. Once he got outside, there was a dented old Honda Civic sitting at the loading dock, its trunk wide open. He stood there staring at it for a moment, listening for any signs of pursuit. When he heard a noise behind him, he dove for the cover of the car's shadow. A glance up told him that it was Gina, hurrying down the ramp from the outside door. "Get in!" she urged, waving her hands toward the trunk.

He could see police lights flashing around the perimeter road and realized he didn't have much choice. They would be doing a full-scale sweep of the premises all night, eventually down to the point of pulling away ceiling panels in back rooms. He couldn't hide, and he couldn't make a run for it. Not without help. So he quietly climbed in the trunk and let Gina drape a battered blanket over him before closing the trunk.

It was a nerve-wracking ten minutes while she drove out of the mall parking lot. He could vaguely hear someone requesting to check the car, followed by her compliant opening of the doors. The trunk latch popped next, and he tensed himself. Through the scratchy wool, he could see the beam of a flashlight sweep around, but Gina had apparently done a good job of covering him up. The lid slammed shut, and they were on their way.

Once he was sure they were on the open road, he pushed the blanket aside, feeling the sweat cool on his body. There was a little bit of room for him to maneuver, and he managed to pull off his coveralls and wad them up into a ball to throw away later, leaving him in jeans and a Dodgers t-shirt. Gina rounded a turn a little too sharply, and he bumped into the side of the trunk. He thought he heard a "Sorry!" shouted from the front, but he couldn't be sure. He tried to keep himself braced against the walls of the trunk for the rest of the ride.

Right about the time he was starting to get nervous, wondering where exactly she was taking him, the car slowed. A couple of turns later, it came to a stop. The trunk popped open, and he clambered out. Gina was walking towards him, asking, "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." He grabbed her upper arm as she came close, ready to demand answers from her. "How do you know who I am?"

She waved a hand in the air. "Don't worry, I'm really good with faces. I haven't told anyone, and I won't."

He shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. "Do you hear what you're saying? Agent Javier was right when she said I was convicted of murder." The words came out before he could think about them, but when he heard them ringing in the air, a chill went down his spine. He'd never said that out loud before.

She gave him a look that clearly said, _Duh_. Aloud she said, "But you didn't do it, did you?"

"That's beside the point. If anyone finds out what you've done here—"

"They won't. Look." She pointed across the parking lot they were standing in. On the far side was a Greyhound bus station, its neon sign glowing dimly. "The bus leaves in fifteen minutes. Transfer in Dallas for the bus going to Birmingham, then take the local to the town of Kimberly. I'll e-mail Meg to tell her you'll be coming. Don't worry, you can trust her."

He finally let go of her arm, realizing that this wasn't the spur-of-the-moment action he had first thought it was. "Why are you doing this, Gina?"

She paused. "Because I don't think you did it. I follow crime stories in the news, and yours caught my attention. I've read everything I could find on it, and I think you're innocent. I want to do whatever I can to help."

He looked at her for a long minute, judging her words. He wanted so badly to believe that there was someone out there like her, someone who believed him not because they knew him personally but because they knew the merits of his case. "Wish you had been on the jury," he finally muttered.

She gave a small smile. "One more thing," she said, gesturing at his head. "Lose the hair dye. It's obviously not your natural color, and based on pictures, you're much better-looking with dark hair."

"Aesthetics aren't exactly my main concern right now," he retorted.

"No, but it makes people wonder what you're hiding." She waved her hands at him. "Now, shoo."

"Thank you," he finally said in as heartfelt a tone as he could.

She smiled in response. "Be careful, okay?" Then she climbed back in her car and drove off.

He jogged across the parking lot to the bus station, cap pulled down low over his head, dropping the overalls in the first trash can he saw. He wasn't so sure about following Gina's instructions to the letter, but at least he could get out of town. He'd have to try and get a newspaper tomorrow and see how they had caught up with him and what he could do differently wherever he ended up next. He certainly couldn't count on a guardian angel to pull him out of trouble like this again.

ooooooooooooooooooo

A/N: See, Patty, I just couldn't bring myself to do it permanently. :)

Thanks to my regular (and first-time) reviewers. If you'd like to join the Regular Reviewers Club and become eligible for fantastic cash prizes (or at least high levels of gratitude), just click on that little button on the lower left-hand corner of your screen…


	8. 4a: On the Road Again

A/N: And here I thought it was the Charlie-lovers who were obsessed with hair…. ;)

Disclaimer and acknowledgments are still in the Prologue.

ooooooooooooooooooo

Chapter 4: On the Road Again

Wednesday, February 27, 2008  
8:55 P.M. (Central)  
Hutchins, TX

"All right, that's twenty, thirty, and forty. See you tomorrow, Ted."

Don accepted the bills from the contractor's hand and nodded before turning away and crossing the parking lot. Same as in L.A., if you wanted to hire a day laborer, the parking lot of the suburban home improvement superstore was the place to go. It was useful for the laborers as well as the contractors, and he'd managed to get a day's pay out of it for the last week or so. That is, if you considered it a day's pay when you worked for twelve hours and got paid for less than eight. It wasn't like he could complain, though; at least he had a way to earn money.

After leaving Ontario, he had followed Gina's instructions until the Greyhound stopped in Dallas. Without knowing if anything had happened to her as a result of aiding his getaway, he couldn't trust that his intended destination with her friend in Alabama would be as safe as he expected. Besides, he didn't really like the idea of trusting someone with whom he'd never communicated when his life and freedom depended on it. So he'd hopped off the bus in Dallas and started, once again, to get settled in.

He crossed the last stretch of the parking lot and started trudging down the dry grass at the edge of the four-lane highway towards his fleabag of a motel. It was chillier than he would have expected; Dallas might get as hot in the summer as Los Angeles, but the winter nights were much colder. He rubbed his hands together for warmth, wishing he had something more than a long-sleeve work shirt to wear. At the moment, all he could do was hurry back to the warmth of indoors.

The last parking lot he had to cross was a 7-Eleven, and he changed course, traversing the asphalt to enter the brightly-lit building. Once inside, he headed for the coffee and poured a tall cup; for warmth, he told himself. He was so tired he doubted the caffeine would affect him much anyway. He cobbled together a moderately nutritious dinner from various other items in the store and headed for the cash register. There was a short line, and he waited patiently, noting the location of the four surveillance cameras pointed at the cashier and the front door and keeping his head down.

As he waited, he casually turned his head and looked around the store, doing what had become his usual scan for law enforcement officers. He saw no customers other than the handful still in front of him in line. No, wait, there was one guy at the back corner by the cases of beer: a six-foot-tall white male with a scraggly brown ponytail and a red plaid shirt over a dark t-shirt. He gave a wry smile to himself. _Old habits die hard_, he thought. With a quick glance, he'd assessed the individual, determined he wasn't a threat, and still filed away the information in his head.

The man took a couple of steps to his right, and Don stiffened. There was an object visible underneath the back of his shirt that could only be the outline of a gun. He quickly looked at the clerk, a twenty-year old absorbed in counting out the change. There were only two people in line in front of him now, an elderly African-American man and an middle-aged Hispanic woman. He looked back towards the refrigerated cases lining the wall, where the plaid-shirted man didn't seem to be in any hurry to choose his beer. He was probably waiting for as many customers to leave as possible before making his move, Don thought grimly. Would there be an panic button underneath the counter? Should he suggest that the clerk push it? Could he risk that?

Then something occurred to him as he looked at the man's back again. This was Texas, after all. Carrying a gun was perfectly legal, and for all he knew, everyone in front of him in line was armed as well. He shook his head, berating himself for being paranoid. This constant watchfulness was really getting to him, and combined with lifting timbers and nailing drywall all day, he was exhausted. He had excellent instincts and they served him well, but sometimes he had to shut them off, especially when his mind was too tired to process information properly.

Finally, it was his turn. He placed his purchases on the counter, reaching in his pocket for his wallet. He heard the bell over the front door jingle as the elderly man left the store, followed by the woman, who held the door open for a young couple entering. He paid for his food and coffee, tucked his wallet away, and turned around.

In a split second, he knew he should have listened to his instincts. Standing three steps in front him was the plaid-shirted man, right arm extended, .38 caliber pointed straight at him. "Your wallet. Now," he growled.

Behind him, the clerk gave a gasp of fear, and the gunman switched his aim to point at him. "Empty the register, now. You!" He swung around to aim at the man and woman who were barely inside the front door, both slowly realizing what was going on as looks of horror spread across their faces. "Your wallet and purse, over here."

There was a muffled shriek, and all five of them looked out the front window. The Hispanic woman had turned back towards the store, and with the darkness outside, the activity in the store must have been clearly visible. She shrieked again, pointing inside, before running off into the parking lot.

"Damn it!" shouted the gunman. He turned back and snapped, "All of you, wallets on the floor, right now!" They hurried to obey, Don hoping desperately that this would be a simple robbery, that the man would take the money and run. And he did move quickly, snatching up the two wallets and purse before grabbing the pile of money the trembling clerk had dropped on the counter.

But then the sirens and flashing lights came into view, pulling into the parking lot from the highway outside, and Don's heart sank. He'd been in a hostage situation like this a couple of times before, but he'd always had backup waiting outside or on its way. Here, he was not only on his own, he was facing the double threat of what was outside the store as well as the direct threat in front of him. He clenched his jaw. There wasn't going to be anything simple about this.

oooooooooooooooooo

8:55 P.M. (Pacific)  
L.A. FBI Field Office

"So, in other words, the geostatistical pattern revealed by your data indicates that the kidnapper is probably hiding out somewhere within a two-mile radius of this point." Charlie tapped the small triangle on the screen indicating the home address of the victim. "Until we get more information, I can't narrow it down any more than that, but I hope that helps."

"Yeah, it makes it possible to carry out a door-to-door search without it taking weeks," Colby said in a tone of relief. "Thanks, Charlie."

He shrugged one shoulder. "Glad I could help." He hoped he was acting casually, but inside he was as nervous as the first time he stood in front of a room of FBI agents and explained to them how to solve their problem with a series of equations and statistical analyses. Then, the only one in the room he'd been trying to connect with was Don, not only because he was the leader of the team, but because his approval was the only one that mattered to him. Now, he felt like he had to earn the respect of the FBI all over again because of the shadow that hung over him: the shadow of his absent brother.

He hadn't responded to Megan's earlier inquiry; he was sure the FBI had more than enough competent people to handle a case of bank fraud. But when she came by his office a second time and told him about a 30-year-old woman reported missing who was later found on surveillance video being forced into a car outside her workplace, he decided that he had to get involved. First, he'd analyzed the video to get a clear shot of the kidnapper, then he'd worked with the profiling data Megan provided to narrow down his likely location. Now it was up to the agents to go out and get him.

"Good job," Megan said warmly as she patted him on the shoulder before heading out of the conference room, already giving orders to the men and women now under her command. Other agents started to leave, until only Colby and David were left, the former looking carefully at the map Charlie had put on the screen, the latter seemingly so engrossed in the file in front of him that he hadn't noticed that Charlie's lecture was over.

Charlie stood there, watching the two of them. Colby had been his usual friendly self this evening, asking a couple of questions during the briefing that indicated he really was paying attention, despite the occasional sideways looks at his partner when a particularly choice piece of jargon came out of Charlie's mouth. David, however, hadn't responded with the tolerant smile he was used to seeing, and it had led him to pay more attention to his reactions. After half an hour of laying out his findings and answering questions, he came to the conclusion that, far from Megan's hope that his presence would make David reconsider leaving the FBI, he was making things worse by being there. David was clearly paying attention to the facts of the briefing, but not the person delivering them. The one time he caught Charlie's gaze, he looked away so quickly Charlie wasn't sure he'd really seen the mixture of resentment and impatience in the other man's eyes. David had kept his head down for the rest of the meeting after that.

In the distance, Charlie heard the ding of the elevator and looked up, automatically hoping to see the one person who hadn't been in the briefing, impossible though it would be. The pang that he always felt when he thought of Don was replaced with simmering anger when he recognized the tall, dark-haired woman stepping out onto the office floor. "Hey, what's she doing here?" he asked sharply.

The two agents turned their heads and spotted Geraldina Javier. "She works here," David grumbled, returning his attention to the file in front of him.

"Not usually so late, though," Colby interjected with a note of curiosity in his voice. "Since—well, since a few weeks ago, she's been keeping more regular hours than we have."

_Since Don got away_, Charlie filled in. He watched through the conference room glass as Javier strode over to a cubicle next to the break room and started talking to a red-haired man who had a file folder open in his hand. "Who's that?"

Colby watched for a moment, his eyes narrowing. "You know, I have a sudden, deep urge for a cup of coffee. Anyone else?" Without waiting for a reply, he strolled off with a deceptively casual stride, though even Charlie could see that his attention was focused on the two agents' discussion as he neared where they were standing.

He exchanged a glance with David, but the other man looked away first and said, "We'd better get busy on this," indicating the diagram on the screen with his pen. "Thanks for coming by."

He swallowed. "David…" he began, then realized he had no idea what to say. He'd come here today expecting to have a difficult time confronting the ghost of his brother's presence in the office where they'd spent so much time together. He hadn't expected this strained relationship between him and his former teammate. A familiar bitterness struck him. _That is, if we really were teammates and I wasn't just the little brother tagging along and showing off my equations._

He looked over to see David looking down at the pad of paper in front of him. "I'm sorry, Charlie," he said quietly. "This shouldn't have anything to do with you."

_But it does_, he wanted to say. _If it has to do with Don, it has to do with me_. Instead, he bulldozed ahead. "Megan told me you were thinking about leaving the FBI."

David's head shot up, and for a moment Charlie felt like a bug under a magnifying glass with the intensity of the stare directed at him. "She told you that, did she?"

He held up his hands and took a step back. "Sorry if I wasn't supposed to know."

David stared at him for another moment before shaking his head. "No, it's okay. But yeah, I've thought about it. Still am, actually."

Charlie swallowed. "It…it doesn't feel right to hear you say that." Don's team was still a team. If they broke up and scattered to the four winds, it would be an even more final statement that he wasn't coming back, something he couldn't bear to think about.

David's eyes hardened. "Yeah, well it doesn't feel right to have someone you trust completely turn their back on you, either."

Stung, Charlie opened his mouth to reply, but he was interrupted when the conference room door swung open. "Okay, I'm back," Colby said. "Are we ready to go, David?" he asked, gesturing towards the bullpen.

"Wait, what's going on?" Charlie asked, jerking his chin towards where Javier was busy gathering up materials from what he assumed was her desk.

David was giving Colby a curious look as well, but he was shaking his head. "Nothing."

"Colby, please." Charlie took a step forward. "If it's about Don…"

The sandy-haired man drew in a deep breath and looked at his partner, who quickly looked away. In a low voice, he said, "All right." He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. "Javier's booking a red-eye flight to Dallas. The police there have digital feed from a surveillance camera in a convenience store, and they've identified Don on it."

Colby's voice was tense, and for a moment Charlie thought that it was because he was worried about Don being captured or about Javier overhearing them. Then he noticed how the other man wasn't meeting his gaze, and he realized that the police wouldn't just happen to have been watching surveillance camera feeds from a random store. "What else?" he asked firmly in the tone he used with undergraduates who had turned in work that wasn't their own, the closest thing he ever came to carrying out an interrogation.

Colby sighed. "This convenience store has a robbery in progress that turned into a hostage situation." He finally looked up at Charlie. "That's all I overheard."

He sank into the nearest office chair. "Oh God," he said softly. His mind raced over the implications and probabilities and came to two possible outcomes: by morning, Don would be in custody, or he would be dead.

Colby was regarding him sympathetically, and even David looked concerned. "I, uh, I've got to tell my Dad," he finally said. "You're okay with this?" and he waved his hand at the numbers on the screen that a moment ago had been the full focus of his attention. Now, he could barely remember what they were for.

"Yeah, we got it," Colby said in a gentle tone. "We'll let you know if we hear anything, okay?"

He nodded absently and headed for the door, already trying to figure out the words to say when he got home. He wondered what his father was going to think of the necessity of Don falling into the hands of the police. Considering the alternative, it was the only good outcome.

ooooooooooooooooooo

Thursday, February 28, 2008  
12:15 A.M. (Central)  
Hutchins, TX

Don started to shift his position, then stopped at a glare from the gunman. He'd been sitting on the floor with the other hostages for the last three hours, lined up against the wall of refrigerated cases in the back of the 7-Eleven and out of sight of the police. In his one brief phone conversation with the officer in charge outside, their captor had stated his name as Foster, demanded a car and safe passage for himself and two hostages, and threatened to kill all of them if he didn't get what he wanted.

That had been an hour ago, and he hadn't answered the phone since. Don had spent much of the intervening time warring with himself, trying to decide whether or not to suggest that a little more cooperation on Foster's part would go a long way towards getting them all out of this in one piece. Half an hour ago, his suggestion that the man pick up the ringing phone had been met with such a murderous glare that he momentarily decided against pursuing that line any further. But he knew that the only way the situation could be resolved was to get lines of communication established between the gunman and the people outside.

Of course, the people outside probably had a better idea of what was going on than Foster knew. Don had noted the small sign when he entered the store hours ago notifying customers that they were being recorded on a digital surveillance system. Presumably someone was watching if not live feed, at least a time-delayed view of what was going on in the store. They would have seen Foster herd the four of them into the last aisle, but based on where the cameras were located, that was it. His biggest fear was that they'd also managed to isolate everyone's faces and identify them, because he still harbored the hope that this could end peacefully with him slipping off without making a statement to the police.

"You got a radio in here?" Foster suddenly barked at the clerk.

The young man nodded nervously. "The…the controls are behind the counter."

Don spoke in the calmest voice he could. "If you want to know what's going on outside, you could pick up the phone the next time it rings."

Foster glared at him. "I told them what I want. Until I see that car outside, there's no need for any talking. 'Less it's to tell them which one of you is going to be dead first."

Don pressed his lips together but stayed silent. With a final dark look, Foster stalked towards the counter and hunted around until he found the radio. Rock music blasted out into the store, causing all five of them to start nervously. Foster snarled and lowered the volume, flipping the dial until he landed on a news station. After a few minutes of commercials and sports, he found what he was looking for and resumed his pacing between the counter and the back aisle.

"This is KMBD radio, news when you need it. We have a late-breaking development in the ongoing robbery and hostage situation at a 7-Eleven in Hutchins. Deirdre, what can you tell us?"

A slightly higher-pitched voice came on, the rushing sounds in the background indicating the speaker was outdoors. "Well, Judy, we've been told by the sheriff's office that they have identified the four hostages inside the store, but that pending notification of their families, they can't release that information to the press."

"How the hell did they do that?" The gunman whirled around and demanded the answer of the radio. "How do they know who's in here?"

From where they were seated, Don couldn't see any of the security cameras, but he knew that had to be the answer. That also meant it was highly likely that the officers outside knew exactly who he was, even if the public didn't. He pondered grimly that at least the news reporters were keeping the information to themselves for now. The longer he stayed anonymous, the better.

"We do, however, have reliable information that one of those hostages is actually wanted by the police as well. There's no more information available at this time, but it is my understanding that this person is actually an escaped fugitive from out of state, and that it's unclear at this point whether he is part of the robbery or if he simply happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Back to you, Judy."

His stomach sank as he listened, and when the radio went to a commercial, he closed his eyes. If he'd thought he was in deep trouble before, it was even worse now.

"Well now, that was interesting." Foster switched the radio off and strolled back over to his captives, looking at each one of them in turn. "Can't be you," he said, waving the gun at the young clerk, who shrank back against the glass behind him. "Can't be you," he leered at the woman, who also seemed to be trying to make herself look smaller. "Probably not you," he directed at the blond man with his arm around her. "That leaves you." Foster took a couple of steps until he was standing in front of Don. "Are you the guy they're talking about?"

Don stared down at the grimy tile floor, dreading what he was going to have to say. The other hostages would no longer trust him once he answered the question, and he had no way of knowing what the gunman's reaction was going to be.

Suddenly, Foster was looming over him. "Hey, I asked you a question. Are you a wanted man?"

He reluctantly lifted his head and looked the other man in the eye. "Yes," he said quietly, ignoring the soft gasp from the woman seated to his left.

"Really." The gunman leaned back a little, looking him over more carefully. "What for?"

He shook his head slightly. "It's not important," he said, although he knew it was futile to try and avoid the question.

"Well, it seems to me that I'm the one deciding what is and isn't important around here." He gave Don's foot a none-too-gentle nudge with his own. "Don't be shy. Here, I'll go first: I'm wanted for armed robbery." This time it was the clerk who made a noise, but Don's attention remained focused on the man in front of him, who was saying, "Your turn," in a tone that indicated he would brook no refusals.

_In for a penny, in for a pound_. He tilted his head back so it was resting against the glass of the refrigerated case, looked straight up into the other man's eyes, and said in as steady a tone as he could, "Murder."

This time, the woman not only gasped but slid a few inches away from him. He barely noticed because he was watching a series of expressions flit across the gunman's face. It started with apprehension, followed by a bit of a smirk, and then something darker that Don didn't like at all. His trepidation was justified when Foster slowly lifted the gun so that it was pointing at him. "So," he said slowly, "in other words, the cops out there would like to get their hands on you even more than on me."

It took a little more effort to keep his voice level this time, but he still managed. "I suppose you could say that."

"Which means you're no good to me as a hostage." As he spoke, Don's heart started to pound. "I threaten to kill you, they'll probably laugh, right? Hell, I'd probably get more points for rolling your dead body out the front door than any of these live ones." He waved the gun around before returning it to its previous position. "And I don't much like the idea of having to keep an eye on someone who's already killed a man."

Don didn't bother to correct him; after all, he _had_ taken a life before, if only in the line of duty and not in the way the other man thought. Looking up into his cold eyes, Don knew Foster meant his threat. He had mentioned armed robbery, but escalation to murder was fairly common for this type of criminal. The Megan-voice he could hear in his head told him that the robber's authority had been threatened by finding out that someone in the room was more of a bad-ass than he was, and he was going to need to do something to reassert that authority. Looking at the weapon a scant three feet from his face, Don had a bad idea about the form that reassertion would take.

His fears were soon confirmed as Foster shifted his aim upwards to point right between Don's eyes and then cocked the gun.

"Wait!" Don held his hands out, staring at the end of the barrel in spite of himself, his efforts at keeping the desperation out of his tone finally falling short. "Wait. Look, I can help you. I'm—" he caught himself and tried again—"I _was_ a Fed. You need me to help get you and everyone else out of this."

He waited for a terrifying moment, half expecting to see the man's finger tighten on the trigger and send a bullet into his skull. Then he heard a drawled, "Go on."

Drawing a breath that was shakier than he would have liked, he went on, "I've been in hostage situations before on both sides of the fence. I can tell you what they're going to say when they call, and how you can get what you want out of them and keep everybody here alive." He raised his eyes to meet the other man's gaze and spoke deliberately, hating himself for the words he was about to say. "And I want to get away from them as badly as you do. In that much, I'm on your side."

There was a sharp intake of breath off to his left, but he couldn't acknowledge it, instead focusing all of his attention on the man who held his life in his hands. Foster was clearly weighing what he had said, and when he uncocked the gun, Don couldn't help the short sigh of relief that escaped him. The other man's mouth twisted in a cruel smile. "Looks like I got myself an accomplice," he sneered.

He grimaced. Just when he thought his situation with the law couldn't get any worse. But looking around at the other three people seated on the floor, none of whom would meet his eyes, he realized that if that was what it took to get them out of here alive, then so be it. Right now, the most important thing was to keep everyone here in one piece, and if it meant sacrificing his freedom to make that happen, he was prepared to do it.

Besides, at the moment he didn't see any other possible outcome.

oooooooooooooooo

A/N: Here's a little encouragement for you potential reviewers: I've already added two things to later chapters based on people's suggestions or questions. So bring 'em on!


	9. 4b: On the Road Again

A/N: I got a bonus disclaimer here: nothing in this part of the chapter came from the comments; some of you are just good guessers. :)

Regular disclaimer and acknowledgments in the Prologue.

ooooooooooooooooo

1:15 A.M. (Mountain)  
American Flight 2404

Dina pressed the call button over her head. When the flight attendant appeared, she quietly notified her that she was going to be using the phone in the seatback in front of her for official FBI business and that she wasn't to be disturbed. Earlier in the flight, she had asked to be reseated at the rear of the aircraft where there were fewer people to be disturbed by her conversation. She didn't mean disturbing their sleep, given the content of the conversation she was likely to be having,. The flight attendant had agreed and moved the handful of nearby passengers several rows forward, figuring that they didn't need to hear words like "hostages" and "gunpoint" being spoken on a commercial aircraft, even by an FBI agent.

She pulled the phone out of the seatback and dialed the L.A. field office. They transferred her to the Dallas office, and then to the officer in charge at the scene. His Texas drawl was milder than she had expected, and she mentally berated herself for expecting a stereotype. Officer Rick Tyler certainly sounded on top of the situation, describing in detail what they had been able to glean off the store cameras, which wasn't much beyond confirming that Don Eppes was present. At first, he had been in the back aisle of the store with the other three hostages, but about two hours ago he had exchanged some words with Foster, and then the camera footage had disappeared when the clerk was forced to turn it off before all of them disappeared into the back office.

The next time they tried calling, Eppes had answered the phone and repeated Foster's earlier demands, throwing in safe passage for himself. In exchange, they had let one of the hostages go, a young woman who refused to leave the scene since her boyfriend was still inside. They pumped her for information, but all she could tell them about Eppes was that he had told the gunman he was on his side.

Dina frowned at the news. Had he really decided to throw his lot in with a convenience store robber? What kind of a deal had the two of them struck?

"I'd like to talk to him," she said, "Can you patch me through?"

"You think that'll make a difference?" Tyler sounded doubtful.

She kept her tone courteous but firm. "I've been investigating Eppes for a long time. I know him and what he's thinking better than anyone you have on the ground, and probably better than anyone else, for that matter."

"All right, we'll see what we can do."

She waited for a couple of minutes, listening to a series of clicks on the other end of the line and looking out the window of the plane. Checking her watch, she saw that there were still a good three hours before she would land in Dallas. Anything could happen in that time. But if she could figure out why Eppes was doing this, she could hand the officers on the scene some valuable information. Hopefully, she'd be there in time to take him into custody.

There was a low ringing sound, and she straightened in her seat. A few seconds later, the voice of the man she'd last seen pointing her own gun at her came on the line. "Hello?"

"Branching out a bit, are we?" she started.

The sharp intake of breath told her that he hadn't known whom he was going to be talking to, which was interesting. His reply was terse. "Not exactly."

She stared out the window at the darkness below, lit by only a few pinpricks of orange light. Unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice, she went on, "No, I guess this is just a more direct way of stealing money than getting it wired into your bank account, isn't it?"

"What do you want, Javier?" His voice was tense, which was hardly surprising. She still wasn't sure how he had expected to pull this off, or why, but that was the purpose of her call.

She kept her voice down. Even though the nearest passenger was three rows away, there was no need to alarm anyone who overheard her words. "What I want, Eppes, is for you to let your hostages go and turn yourself in."

There was a soft snort on the other end of the line that she barely heard. "They're not –" There was a pause, and he started again. "It's not exactly my decision to make."

"So what's your role in the division of labor? Offering pointers on how to get past the police? It's not going to happen and you know it. You've got local cops out there ready to take a shot at you, and I'll be there to pick up the pieces after they do."

She heard a long inhalation, slightly shaky, but again that was to be expected given the situation. When he next spoke, his voice was more intense. "You want to know why I'm doing this?"

Unconsciously, she leaned forward in the seat, her forehead touching the plastic of the window pane. "Yes, I do."

He spoke quickly and confidently. "Ask Agent Green. He'll tell you all about it."

She frowned. "Agent Green? Who is that?"

There was a pause. Then he said, his voice now less sure, "Just ask him." There was another pause. "You have Foster's demands. There's nothing more to say." There was a click, and he was gone.

Dina hung up the phone and thought for a moment, staring out the small window. The points of orange light far below were starting to grow indistinct, and she realized they were passing over a thin cloud layer. She wracked her memory trying to think of every name in file #24601 but could not recall the agent Eppes had spoken of. Whoever he was, he seemed to be the key to what was going on here, and so she opened the phone again and re-dialed Los Angeles.

"I need a home phone number for Agent Megan Reeves," she told the FBI operator. The operator connected her through, and she listened to the phone ring, looking at her watch and wincing. _No matter; this can't wait_.

A man's sleepy voice answered the phone. "This is the domicile of Megan Reeves."

She furrowed her brow at the unconventional greeting. "Is Agent Reeves in?"

There was a rustling noise, and her voice came on, more alert than the original speaker. "This is Reeves."

"This is Dina Javier," she began. "I'm sorry to wake you, but I need some information."

"Must be important," Reeves answered. She heard another rustling sound, and figured it was the other woman sitting up against her headboard. "Do you know what time it is?"

"No," she lied. "I need you to tell me who Agent Green is and how Don knows him."

"Who?" came the response with more than a touch of bewilderment.

"Agent Green. I just had a conversation with Eppes in which he referred to this man, and it's extremely important that I find out who he is."

Reeves spoke slowly, not with the slurring of tiredness, but as if she were trying to make her point very, very clear. "There is no one by that name at the Los Angeles field office, and I cannot recall Don ever mentioning someone by that name."

Dina pursed her lips. "In other words, it's somebody from before your time." She sighed. That would mean a lot more digging in to Eppes' background. And at this time of night, no matter which field office she contacted in which time zone, nobody would be available to do the research.

"Hang on." Reeves' voice had sharpened. "You would have to check the records to verify this, but…'Agent Green' was one of the code words on the list last year for an agent under duress. I'm pretty sure it was in use the last time Don was in the field." Her voice turned wry. "I remember Colby making a joke about Soylent Green and Don laughing with the rest of us."

Her eyes narrowed. How dare he? "An agent under duress? That son-of-a—"

"What's going on, Javier?" Reeves cut her off. "What did Don say in that conversation of yours?"

"Thank you for your time, Agent. I'm sorry to have disturbed your sleep." She hung up the phone and took a deep breath. Did he think he was being funny? According to the released hostage, he'd gladly thrown his lot in with the robber. What was he trying to pull?

She thought for a moment before reaching up and ringing the call button. When the same flight attendant came by, she requested to be awakened half an hour before landing, as she would have another phone call to make. The young woman nodded and said softly, "I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I did overhear part of your conversation." She leaned closer. "I hope you get him."

"Me too," Dina responded with a smile of thanks, and curled up against the window to catch a couple hours of sleep. The blanket she had pulled around her was a little too close to her throat, and she tugged it back despite the cold air blowing down on her from the vent overhead. Better a little chill than risking a repeat of the old nightmare about her serial killer in Ohio. Besides, drowsy as she was, a little cold air wasn't likely to keep her from the blessed escape of sleep.

oooooooooooooooo

4:30 A.M. (Central)  
Hutchins, TX

Two hours after hanging up with Javier, Don didn't know how much more he could take. His nerves had been stretched to the limit almost since entering the store, and subsequent events had only sent the tension higher. The phone call with the FBI agent had been the most difficult. He'd been shocked to hear her voice on the phone, and the distinctive ding that sounded in the background told him she was on a plane, probably on her way here. At the same time, he'd been staring down the barrel of Foster's gun once again, trying to get his message across to Javier without simultaneously tipping off their captor. He didn't know if she would recognize the duress code or if she would even believe it, but it had been the only thing he could think of to say.

He checked his watch and noted that her flight was still an hour away from landing, based on what he remembered of the red-eye schedule. Not that the presence of one more law enforcement officer outside would make a difference, given the swarm of flashing lights he had seen earlier. But there was something about knowing his own personal demon was out there waiting for him that would make the situation even worse.

The phone rang, and he gave a start. "Go ahead," Foster said, gesturing with the .38.

He picked up the receiver. "Yeah?"

"We're ready. You get the car, we get a hostage."

"That's the deal," he agreed, and at Foster's gesture, hung up.

"All right, you." Foster pointed his gun at the clerk. "Get up and get over here." He grabbed the clerk's arm and pressed the gun into his side before looking at the blond man. "You, out in front. Either of you try anything…" He cocked the gun and gave them a meaningful look. Then he looked at Don. "Same for you. Anyone out there thinks you're someone who needs to be rescued, I'll make sure you won't be."

He clenched his jaw and gave a short nod. They were about to enter the most crucial phase of the standoff: the moment where they were completely exposed to the police outside, and one misstep on anybody's part would mean a lot of guns going off and their odds of survival going way down. He would have to keep a close eye on Foster to see if there was any chance of disarming him and getting the clerk free. If it meant he took a bullet himself, well, in some sense that beat what was waiting for him in California. At least it would be a death of his own choosing. He shook his head to clear it of his morbid thoughts. The fact that he had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours now wasn't exactly helping his state of mind.

For all his worry, the transfer went surprisingly well. Foster kept the clerk in front of him as a shield the entire time, forcing Don into the driver's seat while he and his hostage climbed in the back. The blond man raced out of the line of fire as soon as he could, and out of the corner of his eye, Don saw him reuniting with his girlfriend behind the phalanx of police cars. But then his attention was diverted by Foster snapping from the back seat, "Come on, let's go."

He eased out of the parking lot, the surreal situation almost making him laugh. There he was, driving past a dozen police cars and two dozen cops who he was sure would like nothing more than to get their hands on him but were unable to because of his supposed accomplice and hostage in the back seat. He, on the other hand, would like nothing more than to see that hostage safely released and Foster in custody. There was still time for either scenario to happen, he knew. Just because they were being allowed to drive out of the parking lot didn't mean they would be allowed to get very far.

They drove down the four-lane highway, Foster constantly looking over his shoulder for signs of pursuit. The sun wouldn't be rising for well over an hour yet, although as they headed east, Don thought he saw a paler shade of darkness on the horizon. After a couple of miles, when the divided highway became a two-lane road and they were clearly beyond the edge of the city, he slowed the car.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Foster snapped.

He kept his voice calm. "You agreed to let him go once we got away." They were nowhere near "getting away," but he hoped the gunman didn't realize that. There might not be any helicopters overhead or flashing lights in the rearview mirror, but that didn't mean they weren't being watched.

"Yeah, well, maybe I changed my mind."

Don's heart sank. "Look," he tried, "he's just going to slow you down, he's one more thing you have to worry about. Let me pull over and let him off. You've still got me."

"Fat lot of good you'll do me," the other man sneered.

"Hey, I'm the one on the run, remember?" he snapped back, unable to keep his temper in check any longer. "I kind of have a vested interest in getting away. And trust me, it's easier without a hostage." That was Don Eppes the FBI agent speaking, not Don Eppes the fugitive, but again, Foster didn't need to know that.

There was a moment of silence. Then he said, "All right, pull over." Don did so, and came to a stop on the gravel at the side of the road. "Get out," Foster said, shoving the clerk towards the door. The young man scrambled for the door handle and dove out of the car, running down the shoulder the way they had come without a backwards glance.

Keeping his gun trained on Don, Foster climbed out of the back seat and entered the front, pulling the seatbelt over himself as he sat down. "Let's go."

Don took a deep breath and started to drive again. He was having trouble concentrating on the road, tired as he was, but his mind was racing, trying to figure out what to do next. He'd actually accomplished his goal: getting all of the hostages out in one piece. Now, he realized that there was a small possibility he might actually get out of this mess himself. There was just the matter of the gunman next to him and the police pursuit he was expecting to see any minute.

They rounded a curve, and far off in the distance, he thought he saw flashing lights. Swearing under his breath, he searched the sides of the highway and found what he was looking for. "Hold on," he muttered as he hit the brakes and gave the wheel a sharp turn.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Foster's voice was sharp as he grabbed at the dashboard as they spun around the corner.

They bounced onto the unpaved road, Don having a ridiculous flashback to watching "Dukes of Hazzard" as a kid as they fishtailed slightly on the gravel. "They might have let us get out of the immediate vicinity, but they'll have roadblocks set up on all the main highways. If we take the side roads, we might be able to slip past."

"Roadblocks, huh?" Foster sneered as he pointed the .38 back in Don's direction. "I suppose there's a reason you didn't tell me about that before I let the kid go?"

He glanced to the side and saw the gun wavering around as they bounded over the pitted road. He slowed slightly, checking the speedometer. _Perfect_. Then aloud he said, "Yeah, there is. I didn't want you to get away."

Before Foster could react, he reached over, unbuckled the man's seatbelt, and slammed on the brakes with full force.

The car was too old to have airbags, but Don trusted that his seatbelt would hold. It did, sending him forward against the steering wheel but thankfully not into it. Foster didn't fare as well; the seatbelt was still tangled across his chest, but it was no longer stretched taut to hold him back. The sudden loss of the car's forward momentum meant that Newton's First Law of Motion now applied only to his body, which went sailing forward to crash through the safety glass of the windshield, coming to a stop halfway out of the vehicle.

Don hastily unbuckled his own belt and reached forward, checking the gunman's pulse in the wrist that was draped over the dashboard. It was strong, and he was already moving around a little. He climbed out of the car, reached across the hood to grab the gun out of the other man's hand, and after a quick check in both directions, sprinted down the gravel in the direction they'd been headed.

After the unbearable tension of the last eight hours, even dog-tired as he was, it felt good to run. In a minute he would have to consider his route more carefully, but for now, he was going to move as fast as he could, leaving behind the no-longer-armed robber and the police who would soon be in pursuit. He had an hour of darkness to work with, and he wasn't going to let it go to waste.

oooooooooooooooooo

Monday, March 4, 2008  
3:14 P.M.  
L.A. FBI Field Office

"That's the last of it." Agent Chad Danvers rubbed his eyes and sat back from the computer screen. "All eight hours of thrilling action."

Dina looked up from the maps of Texas she was examining, wishing one of them had a dot labeled "Don Eppes." "Any luck on the sound?"

He shook his head. "Seems to be video only. The store owner might have mistrusted his manager enough to set up a camera on a separate circuit in the office, but he wasn't willing to spring for the audio component."

She gave a soft snort. If the cops had been able to get a hold of the owner while the robbery was underway and found out about the remaining functional camera, they could have been watching it live instead of going through the tapes after the fact. "So, what have you got?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Some pretty interesting stuff. For one, Eppes was clearly not actually an accomplice, no matter what Foster said. He spent more time than anyone else at the other end of the gun."

"You mean he really was under duress," she frowned.

Danvers nodded. "By the time they drove off, there was one bad guy and two hostages, not the other way around."

"Damn." She thought about it for a moment, taking off her reading glasses and staring out the window at the glass-and-steel skyline of downtown. If the local authorities had known Eppes was a hostage, too, they would have been much more willing to spring a trap on Foster before he'd gotten out of the parking lot. The irony of it burned her: she hadn't believed his warning signal, and because of it, he'd gotten away. "Damn!" she repeated, tapping her fist on the top of her desk.

"Dina?" The third member of her task force entered their cubicle, a man a couple of years younger than her who had been part of the L.A. field office for nearly a decade. Tom Metzke had volunteered to help her as soon as she had arrived in town, and she had quickly gotten the feeling that he was even more determined than her to make Eppes pay for what he'd done. He'd been enthusiastic about going through old records and case files, digging up a surprisingly large amount of evidence against such a well-respected agent. Eventually she figured out that he was taking it personally that one of his colleagues could have turned on them all like he did. Still, he kept a professional air and was one of the most dedicated people she could have hoped for to have under her command.

"I've got the latest report from the Texas State Troopers." Metzke shook his head grimly. "No sign of him."

She drew in a slow breath. "Maybe it's time to widen the net," she said. "Contact the adjoining states and tell them to start watching the bus stations and truck stops. I'm going to add him to the Major Case Fugitive Program; that'll get some more resources going our way."

He nodded and ran a hand through his short-cropped red hair. "Oh, and they found the weapon used in the robbery. It was lying in the weeds about a quarter-mile from where the car and Foster were."

"It's strange that he keeps getting rid of the guns he comes across," Danvers said. "First…well, first yours, and now this. You would think he'd be taking advantage of the opportunity."

"You would think," she echoed, lost in thought for a moment. Eppes wasn't behaving like the typical fugitive at all. _But then, the typical fugitive hasn't spent years hunting down other people on the run_, she reminded herself. He would know all of the tricks and tactics available, including the lower priority that would be placed on him if he was known not to be armed.

She sighed and looked up at Metzke. "Contact the adjoining states, and then get the armed and dangerous designation removed from his description." He frowned, and she shrugged one shoulder. There was nothing they could do.

Don Eppes had apparently won this round, but she wasn't going to stop until she had brought him down.

ooooooooooooooooooo

A/N: I can't take credit for the no-seatbelt-going-through-the-windshield thing; that's from the episode "Sanctuary" in the 2000-01 TV version of "The Fugitive."


	10. 5a: The Valley Road

A/N: Wow, I've already gotten more reviews for this story than any other one that I've written, and we're not even a third of the way through. That makes me happy. :)

Disclaimer and acknowledgments in the Prologue. Bonus thanks to Susan for pushing me to do a better job with this chapter.

ooooooooooooooooooo

Chapter 5: The Valley Road

Monday, March 17, 2008  
8:40 A.M. (Pacific)  
Lorden Hall, CalSci

"Good morning, Charlie."

He looked up from his notes to see Amita entering his office and gave her a wide grin. "Hey."

"You're in an awfully chipper mood this morning," she said with a raised eyebrow.

He hesitated, then made a decision. This was Amita; he had to be able to trust her. "Shut the door," he said softly.

A second eyebrow joined the first, but she did as he requested and then came back to stand next to him. "What is it?"

He opened the file folder on top of his desk and rifled through the student exams. Hidden in the middle was a postcard with a picture of Vicksburg, Mississippi. "I got this in the mail yesterday," he said, holding it out to her carefully, hoping she would understand its significance and its contribution to his good mood.

She accepted the postcard and turned it over, frowning when she saw no message. "But who's it—" He saw the moment when her face cleared and she understood. Then she looked at him warningly. "Charlie, aren't you going to turn this over to the FBI?"

He blinked. "What?"

"It's evidence, isn't it?"

He snatched the postcard back from her and stared at her incredulously. "Amita, I am not giving this to the FBI! Besides, I'm sure he's long gone by now; he wouldn't be so stupid as to send something from a place he was staying in." He gave a nervous chuckle and tucked the postcard into his desk. "He did Fugitive Recovery, you know; I'm sure he knows better than anyone else what not to do."

"Yes, but after two weeks, they must be nearly out of places to look."

He slowly rose to his feet, wishing that he was about six inches taller so he could loom over her. Instead, he looked her in the eye and said in a thick voice, "You sound an awful lot like you're on their side."

She sighed exasperatedly. "I'm not on their side, I'm just worried about your brother. The longer he's out there, the worse it looks for him and the harder it's going to be when they do catch up with him."

"The longer he's out there, the better of a chance he has at finding who actually killed Liz," he retorted. "No one's going to do that if he's sitting on Death Row."

"Charlie, I know that," she said in a conciliatory tone. "It's just…I still can't picture Don Eppes, of all people, on the run. It's like he turned into someone else: someone that I don't know, and someone that you don't know." She looked down at the top of his desk and fidgeted with a pile of analytic geometry books. "And all of sudden we have no idea where he is or what he might do."

"I know Don," he snapped back as hot anger flooded through him. "I know what he's like, and that hasn't changed. That can't change. As for 'what he might do', what exactly are you suggesting?"

She shook her head. "Never mind."

"No, really," he said, his tone suddenly deadly calm. "I'd like to know."

She looked back up at him, her dark eyes troubled. "I'm not suggesting that he's going to start robbing banks or something, Charlie. I guess it's just that…" Her voice trailed off. Then she took a deep breath and said, "It makes me feel like if he can change so quickly, so could you."

There was silence for a moment as he digested that. Then he took a half step forward and reached out to take her hand. "Amita, I'm not—" Then he realized he couldn't finish that sentence. Who knew what circumstances might force a change in his behavior that he couldn't predict, even with all of the variables and values that he knew about himself by heart? He'd known those variables for Don, or thought he did, at any rate, and his brother had still gone and done something that shocked him completely, erasing a big swath of his mental chalkboard and leaving him gaping at the result.

He hadn't realized until this moment, though, how much he still supported Don no matter what. He believed in his brother and knew he was the same person he'd always been, no matter what Amita or anyone else had to say.

What she heard, however, was the sentence that he couldn't finish, and she slowly pulled her hand out of his. "I need to finish up my lecture notes before class," she said quietly and took a step back.

"Oh, okay," he said, his thoughts whirling. "I'll, uh, see you for lunch?"

She nodded hesitantly and then turned and left.

He _had _changed over the last few weeks, he realized as the door closed behind Amita, although it was only in the last few minutes that he'd admitted it to himself. Instead of sitting on the fence regarding Don's decision to run, he suddenly found himself firmly in his brother's camp. The feeling was exhilarating, like when he'd made the decision to come back to California after weeks of dithering between Oxford and CalSci, or when he was climbing a particularly difficult rock face and suddenly saw a clear route to the top. Not that he had a clear plan in mind, not that he even knew what might constitute such a plan, but he had an idea of how to start.

At some point in the last three years, Don had obtained clearance for him to access the FBI's central database from a remote location. He patched into the server, double-checking to make sure the connection was secure. When the search screen came up, he typed in the name, "Alexander Brock." Don had been positive that this was the man who had killed Liz, and Charlie knew his brother was rarely wrong when it came to faces. If he could find something out and somehow get in touch with Don—a problem to be solved at a later date—he could help him without running afoul of the law.

As the search program ran, he started mentally rearranging his schedule, shifting class preparation into a smaller time slot, throwing his consulting for the LAPD out the window altogether, and postponing lunch with Amita for another day. He had another priority now, and he was going to pursue it as far as he could.

ooooooooooooooooooo

10:57 A.M. (Central)  
Kimberly, AL

At that same moment, Don was trying to remember the last time he'd been so miserable. It had been raining steadily for the last two days, and he'd spent most of it outdoors, resulting in a head cold that he was afraid was turning into something more serious. The congestion in his head had led to a sinus headache that was searing his forehead, and every time he coughed, it flared a little bit more. He hunched his shoulders against the rain and stuck out his thumb again.

Hitchhiking had gotten him out of Texas, and without a clear idea of where to go, he'd simply headed east. He knew it was a bad idea—the most obvious route for a fugitive to take was to continue in their last known direction—so he'd made the compromise with himself to stay away from bus stations and truck stops to avoid wanted posters and too many eyes. Unfortunately, that left him with few options for travel. He'd walked about as much as he could stand, and it was while making what seemed like his tenth detour to find a bridge across the Mississippi River that he'd remembered Gina and her friend in Alabama. He didn't have her phone number or even her last name, but how many people named Meg could there be who owned a stable in a small town north of Birmingham?

That had been a week ago, and his progress since then had been slow. He tried hitchhiking again, but once it started raining, his luck went away. So he trudged on in the drizzle, shivering in the thin jacket he'd picked up at a Salvation Army store in Shreveport, wondering what he was going to do if he got there and she didn't turn out to be as helpful as Gina had promised.

He coughed and made a face at the scratchiness of his throat. Coughing didn't seem to clear his throat as well as it had yesterday, like there was something coating the lining of his throat that wouldn't go away. He hit his chest with the heel of his hand, trying to clear up the blockage he could feel there. _Great, just what I need. Running from the law while pneumonia sets in. That's a winning combination. _

Thankfully, he finally got a trucker to pick him up, and the last miles up Interstate 65 were spent in relative comfort. He tried to keep his coughing quiet, but he could tell that the trucker was not at all sorry to let him out at the exit he requested. He trudged down the shoulder of the four-lane highway towards the dot on the map that was Kimberly, AL, his head pounding as he walked. After about fifteen minutes, he saw a small wooden billboard indicating the R&R Stables, owner Margaret Raney, at the next cross street. Could that be it?

Shivering once again, he turned off the highway and down the patched asphalt road, turning up his jacket collar to keep the rain from trickling down his neck. The landscape was a mixture of forest and fields, the dirt a burnt orange color underneath his feet by the side of the road. The road headed down a steep hill into a valley, crossing a wide stream before climbing up the other side. He paused to catch his breath, not liking the rasping sounds he was making as he did so. He wiped the rain off his face and kept going, following a second sign and turning onto a dirt road slick with orange-brown mud.

The road led to a small, white house in a neatly-trimmed yard. Behind the house, he could see a sloping hill leading down to a long, low building that must be the stables. He stood there for a moment, catching his breath and trying to figure out what to say. Finally, he walked up the driveway, stepped up onto the porch and knocked on the front door.

"Just a minute!" came a voice from inside. A coughing fit overtook him, and when he straightened up, he saw a petite woman about Charlie's age standing in the doorway, looking like she wasn't sure whether to be concerned or appalled at his appearance.

"Sorry," Don said, trying to clear his throat. "Are you Meg?"

A frown creased her forehead underneath a blue baseball cap. "Who wants to know?"

He couldn't blame her for being suspicious, but he couldn't exactly blurt his name out, either. So, feeling like a character in a Mafia movie, he replied, "Gina sent me."

The suspicion turned to confusion, and then her eyes widened. "Oh! You're—" She cut herself off. "You were supposed to be here weeks ago."

"I'm sorry." He took a step backwards. "I understand if you can't…Gina told me that you might have a place for me to stay, but it's okay…" He trailed off as he started to cough again, shaking his head in frustration at his inability to speak.

"Oh, of course you can stay, come on in." She helped him inside, then frowned at him as he continued to cough. "There's a spare bedroom in the back; it sounds like you need to rest."

That was an understatement. "Yeah, that might be a good idea," Don said as he stumbled into the house, only hazily registering his surroundings as he followed her down a short hallway and into a room with barely enough space for a twin bed and a chest of drawers. A wave of dizziness struck him in the doorway, and he lurched forward, catching hold of the footboard of the bed. "Sorry," he said, shaking his head, then wished he hadn't. The pounding in his head worsened, and he felt himself leaning forward, unable to stop his fall.

He muttered, "Sorry," one more time as he crashed onto the bed, wet clothing already soaking into the bedcovers. He heard a startled gasp from Meg before succumbing to the blackness that had been threatening ever since he got to her front yard, his last thought a prayer that he wouldn't wake up to find an officer standing guard over him.

oooooooooooooooooo

Tuesday, March 18, 2008  
2:45 P.M. (Pacific)  
731 E. Temple St., Los Angeles

Colby shut the door of the squad car on the still-arguing prisoner and turned away. "They always think they're going to talk us out of it, don't they?" asked the blonde officer leaning against the hood.

"Yeah," he answered, shaking his head. "Never works, does it?"

"No, it doesn't," she agreed. "Well, at least not like this."

He raised an eyebrow in silent query.

She jerked her chin towards another uniformed officer standing a few feet away on the crumbling pavement of the parking lot. "My partner worked this case a couple of years ago across the river in East L.A. Months of work, got a nice clean bust, and then the evidence got screwed up. Some Fed thought a few thousand dollars in his pocket was worth letting a drug dealer off the hook." She shook her head. "'Course, I guess that's not the worst of what this guy did, but still…." She trailed off as she finally seemed to register the "FBI" on his vest. "You, uh, you didn't know him, did you?"

Colby felt his face flushing with anger. "Excuse me," he said curtly, turning on his heel and striding away. This wasn't the first time he had encountered a law enforcement officer deriding his former boss, but every time it stung like new. Why were they all so quick to turn on their own? Was it the running that made Don's innocence so difficult to believe? Was it the, what did Charlie call it, the Occam's razor thing: the simplest explanation was that Don was guilty, and therefore it must be the right one?

Was he the only person left who remembered what a dedicated, devoted, honest agent Don Eppes was?

Down the alleyway, he could see his partner in a discussion with another one of LAPD's finest, and he took a deep breath. _ Here we go, from one fun conversation to another._ "Hey, David, can I talk to you for a second?" he called out.

The other man gave him a quick glance, then exchanged a few last words with the officer. He came over, unfastening his vest along the way. "Yeah, what's up?"

He was still wound up from the blonde's comments, and some of the anger slipped into his voice. "So, what part of 'I've got him' didn't you understand?"

David's head whipped up. "Excuse me?"

"In the warehouse. I told you I had a bead on the first suspect, and you were supposed to go for the second one."

"I did." He pointed at the squad car halfway down the alley, his tone becoming defensive. "He's the guy in handcuffs, remember?"

"Yeah, after you had to chase him for a full half-mile. What was up with letting him get that far?"

David narrowed his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He sighed. "It means that if you hadn't taken the extra ten seconds to make sure I meant what I said, you wouldn't have had to run so far."

"Maybe I was just watching your back."

"Yeah, maybe." He paused for a moment and ran a hand through his hair. "Look, you've covered for me before when I haven't been playing my A-game, and I owe you. That's why I'm telling you this."

"Telling me what?" David paused in removing his vest, his eyes intent on Colby's.

He held out a hand, palm out. "This isn't the first time, David. We've been partners for what, almost three years? And all of a sudden, the last few months, you keep trying to do things on your own."

"Maybe I'm just being extra careful."

He shook his head. "I don't think that's it."

"Is this where you go all Reeves on my ass and try to tell me what I'm thinking and what my motivations are?"

"No, as the team leader, I'm sure she'll have plenty to say to you later. I'm just talking as your partner." He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think of how to phrase what he wanted to say. "Look, I told Don this once and I'll tell you the same thing. If you've got a team, you gotta trust them. That's just the way it works."

"Yeah, and look how well he listened, huh?" The anger in David's voice caught him by surprise. "He bailed on us. There's no one I trusted more watching my back, other than you, and now he's gone. Damn lucky he hasn't been killed by now. He couldn't trust us to watch his back; he couldn't trust us to be there for him, to work through the appeals process and get the truth out. He had to go and try to do this all on his own."

Colby looked him straight in the eye. "You mean like you're doing right now?"

He could tell that his point had hit home by the stunned look in his friend's eyes. He gentled his voice and went on, "Look, if your head's not in this, then I can't count on you, and I don't want that. You're a good agent; hell, you're the best partner I can imagine having. I don't want to lose you, but if you don't start getting things together, I'll pick up the phone and call your buddy in New York myself."

David looked away. "Sounds like you've been thinking about this for a while."

He shrugged one shoulder. "It's been on my mind, yeah."

"Is it on anyone else's mind?"

"Not that I know of." He had caught Megan giving David sideways looks once in a while, particularly when Charlie was around, but she hadn't said anything. "Listen, LAPD is booking our catch; all we have to do is some paperwork, and that'll be waiting for us tomorrow. You want to go get a beer?"

David had pulled his vest over his head and was now fiddling with the straps. He gave him a curious look. "At three in the afternoon?"

He gave another shrug. "It's five o'clock somewhere."

The corner of David's mouth turned up. "This isn't some half-assed attempt to get me to talk about my feelings, is it?"

Colby gave him his best _Who, me?_ look. Aloud he said, "Do I look like the kind of guy who enjoys doing something like that?"

David clapped him on the shoulder. "Thanks, man, but I think I should spend a little quality time with myself, you know?"

"All right," he agreed, inwardly frowning. That sounded ominous. "But if you need to, you know…."

"Yeah, I know." David gave him a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, and then walked past him.

Colby sighed and started removing his own Kevlar. Talking to David had been the right thing to do; he had to know that his distraction was affecting the people who counted on him in the field, with potentially serious consequences. But as he turned and watched his partner walk out of the alley, he frowned. He just hoped he wasn't watching him walk out of his life.

oooooooooooooooo

6:48 P.M. (Central)  
Kimberly, AL

Don opened his eyes and blinked in confusion. Absolutely nothing around him looked familiar, and it was a very disorienting feeling. He was tucked underneath faded blue sheets and a blue-and-brown quilt in a small bedroom with pale yellow walls. The shade at the window was drawn, and the last rays of twilight were creeping through around the edges. A small lamp with a dark green shade stood on top of the table next to the head of the bed, and he reached out to turn it on. The illumination extended to the white chest of drawers at the foot of the bed and the closed door next to it; there wasn't much else to see.

He felt sore and tired, but he could tell that he was much better than when he had stumbled into this sanctuary earlier this morning. At least, he assumed it had been this morning; there were no clocks in the room, but the level of darkness outside told him it was nightfall. He decided to try sitting up and started shifting forward in the bed.

The door opened, and Meg poked her head in, a smile breaking across her face. "Hey, you're awake!" she said cheerfully. "Welcome back."

"Thanks," he said, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He looked down and noticed he was wearing an Atlanta Falcons t-shirt, and the soft cloth against his legs felt like a pair of sweatpants. "Did you, uh…"

When she realized what he was asking, she blushed. "Oh, I had Henry, one of our stablehands, take care of you. Don't worry, I told him you were my college friend visiting from up north and your car broke down and you didn't have my number, so you had to walk a ways in the rain. Your clothes were soaking wet," she said, shaking her head. "It's a wonder you weren't sicker."

"Sorry to collapse at your doorstep like that." He coughed, grateful to hear that it wasn't the hacking sound from earlier, although it was still deeper than a normal cough would be.

Her eyes were compassionate as she answered, "It's okay. You haven't exactly had an easy time of it, have you?"

"You could say that," he replied, a little warily.

She took a couple of steps forward and shut the door behind her. "Gina and I have been scouring the news. There hasn't been anything about you for a week now, even in the local L.A. papers. I think they lost track of you."

"For now, at least," he said bleakly. He was under no illusions about that; sooner or later, someone would find a piece of evidence that would lead Javier to Alabama. He had to be gone long before that happened.

"Well, you're welcome here for as long as you want," she said. "There's just me and the two stablehands, Henry and Joe. We mostly stable other people's horses, so there isn't a whole lot of traffic going in and out of here."

He shook his head and pushed the blankets aside. "Thank you for the offer, but I can't put you in any danger."

"It's no bother, really."

"It doesn't matter if it's a bother or not," he said more sharply. "If anyone finds me here, you'll be in serious trouble. This isn't some kind of a game you're playing; you're sheltering an escaped convict." Once again, saying the words out loud made something twist in his gut, as though by speaking the words he was bringing to life something that otherwise would be only a bad dream.

"I know that," she said quietly. "Believe me, this wasn't an impulsive decision."

"Then what made you decide to do it?" he asked. "I heard the radio reports; they think I was part of a convenience store robbery. That doesn't seem to bother you as much as it should."

She was looking at him strangely. "When's the last time you heard the news?"

Don thought for a moment. He'd actually been avoiding the news since escaping from Hutchins, which was…how many days ago now? "A while," he replied cautiously.

"Well, they know you weren't part of the robbery," Meg explained. "There was a camera in the back office that they found later. Agent What's-Her-Name had this press conference where she said they were wrong about you being part of it, but that anyone with information about you was still asked to contact the authorities."

He looked pointedly at her, but didn't say anything.

She flushed. "The clerk from the store gave this interview where he said you were like the hero that saved all of them. He said he didn't know what you were supposed to have done, but he didn't believe it, whatever it was."

"And you're taking his word over that of a judge and jury?"

"Can't you just accept that someone wants to help you?" she retorted.

He let out a long sigh. "I can't afford to."

She regarded him for a moment, then slowly nodded in understanding. "Well, look at it this way. If you're worried about yourself, I've had lots of time to turn you in. You've pretty much been out for the last thirty hours or so."

He stared at her, stunned. "Wow." He ran a hand over his jaw again. That would explain the stubble scratching his fingertips.

"And don't worry about me," she went on, "I told you about the two stablehands. I also know how to use a gun, and I've got one in the house."

"That still doesn't explain why," he said.

She shook her head, her honey-blond ponytail bobbing with the motion. "Maybe not, but I'll explain over dinner. That is, if you feel like it?"

While he was considering the idea, his stomach rumbled. "I guess that's a yes," he answered, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"No, no, stay put," she said, waving her hands at him. "I'll bring it in," she went on as she backed towards the door.

"Hey," he said softly, and she paused. "Thank you," he said seriously. "You don't have to do any of this."

She shrugged one shoulder. "You're welcome." Then she opened the door and was gone.

He looked after her for a while, wondering if this was some kind of karmic return for the horribly bad luck he'd had in Dallas. Still, on the cosmic balance sheet, it would take a lot more than one woman's kindness to make up for all of the misfortune he'd suffered through in the last few months. "You owed me one," he muttered at the ceiling, then lay back against the pillows to close his eyes for a minute.

When Meg entered a few minutes later carrying a tray of soup and bread, he was once again sound asleep.

ooooooooooooooooo

A/N: Go on, keep making me happy; leave a review!


	11. 5b: The Valley Road

A/N: Keep your eyes open for the group shout-out and feel free to include yourself in it. You'll know what I mean when you see it...

Disclaimer and acknowledgments remain in the Prologue.

ooooooooooooooooo

Tuesday, March 23, 2008  
4:45 P.M. (Pacific)  
L.A. FBI Field Office

"Agent Javier, the Assistant Director will see you now."

Dina stood up and straightened her shoulders, nodding her thanks at the secretary. She crossed the anteroom and entered the office. "Sir," she greeted him.

A.D. Wright gestured for her to shut the door behind her. "Agent Javier, thank you for coming on such short notice."

_It's not like I was doing anything else_, she thought ruefully, but aloud she said, "It was no trouble, sir." Any leads from the convenience store holdup in Texas had dried up a week ago, and she and her two team members had been tearing their hair out trying to figure out where Don Eppes had gone. She was afraid that the purpose of today's meeting was about that, and she sat upright in her chair, mentally rehearsing her arguments as to why she should be permitted to stay in Los Angeles and keep pursuing this case.

But the Assistant Director surprised her. "I have a proposal of sorts for you, and I'd like to think what you hear of it."

She nodded warily. "Okay."

"I understand that you're originally from Los Angeles?"

"That's right, I grew up in Reseda. My mother still lives there." For all she knew, her father did, too, but given the lack of contact with him over the last ten years, she really had no idea.

"Have you ever thought about transferring to this office?"

She blinked. "I suppose it has been in my long-term goals, but I've only been in DC for eighteen months." As with most government agencies, a transfer through the Washington office of the FBI earned you big points towards gaining a higher-level position at the location of your choice. She hadn't expected the transfer back out to happen so quickly.

Wright leaned forward, steepling his fingers in front of him. "Let me be perfectly frank with you, Agent Javier. These are unusual circumstances, but I'm sure you're aware of that."

She wasn't quite sure what he was getting at, so she simply nodded politely.

"I've been getting pressure from my superiors with regards to the case you're here to work on. I need not tell you that it's embarrassing for this office to have so much difficulty finding such a high-profile fugitive."

So this was about Eppes after all. "Sir, I assure you, my team and I are working as hard as—"

He waved a hand and cut her off. "I know that. Just between you and me, some of this pressure I mentioned has been to transfer the case on to Fugitive Recovery." He sat back in his chair and shook his head. "Truth is, I'm not sure I can trust them to be completely objective on this one. I know Will Bennett, the head of the Southwest Region, quite well, and I suspect he's got a soft spot where Don Eppes is concerned, considering all of the time they worked together."

The thought had crossed her mind, too, but she wouldn't have expected Wright to agree. "Sir, they _are_ better trained with regards to this kind of work; it might be more effective to turn it over to them." She swallowed back the bitterness she felt at saying those words. Cases weren't supposed to get personal; she was supposed to do whatever was necessary to bring in Don Eppes, even if it meant turning the job over to someone else.

"I appreciate you saying that, but I'm inclined to disagree. Which brings me back to my original question." He raised an eyebrow. "Would you be interested in a permanent transfer to this office?"

She thought for a moment. "Are you suggesting that my duties would remain unchanged from my current assignment?"

"For now, at least. I've been impressed with your work. Eppes has simply gotten lucky; that's bound to change sooner or later. And once it does, we could use you as a permanent member of this field office."

She regarded him thoughtfully. "I'll need some time to consider it, but yes, I am very much interested." She hadn't been looking forward to packing it up and heading back to dreary Washington, especially since the occasional dinner with Mom and Aunt Maria had turned into a regular weekly event some time in the last few months. It had been nice to have family around for once, and it would be wonderful to be back in California.

"Good, I'm glad to hear it. I've spoken with your supervisor, and while he hates the idea of losing you, he said he understands and he'd support your decision." He looked at her more keenly. "Will a week be enough to decide?"

_That's awfully fast_. "It should be," she replied, "since it's a very tempting offer."

"That's good." He rose to his feet and extended a hand. "I hope to be welcoming you to a position here very soon, Agent Javier."

"Thank you very much, sir," she said, reaching out to shake his hand. "I'll let you know as soon as possible."

She pondered the offer as she made her way back downstairs to the bullpen. Was this Wright's way of maintaining his authority by indicating that he was serious about his office being the one to find Eppes? Did he think the search was going to continue for quite a while yet, and that she was better off not being in organizational limbo between two different offices? Whatever the political motivations, it was a great personal opportunity. And it meant she wouldn't have to relinquish control of what was rapidly becoming a personal mission.

The elevator doors opened, and the first thing she saw was Chad Danvers prairie-dogging out of their cubicle, looking around frantically. When he saw her, his blue eyes lit up, and he hurried over. "We've got something," he said when he was within range.

She automatically cast her eyes around, looking for any trace of the Three Musketeers. Reeves and her rookie had left before Wright's summons, she recalled, but Sinclair and Granger were ensconced in the conference room with rows of file boxes on the floor. "What is it?" she finally asked.

Danvers led her to their cubicle and picked up his notepad. "A trucker in Wisconsin saw a wanted poster and said he's almost positive he gave Eppes a ride about a week ago. It was somewhere in Alabama; he can't remember exactly where, but he knows it was north of Birmingham. Said he was pretty sick; just about hacked up a lung in his cab."

"Mmm-hmm." That was unfortunate for Eppes, but fortunate for them. He couldn't move very fast if he was ill, although if that was a week ago, he had presumably recovered by now. They'd have to run through the John Does in nearby hospitals, just in case. "Did he say why he dropped him off where he did?"

"Just said he was visiting a friend." Danvers' brow creased. "We don't have anything in the file about him having a contact in Alabama."

"Then we'd better get busy finding out who it is, right?"

"Right." He turned to his desk, and she looked up to see Colby Granger passing within a few feet, carrying a mug of coffee.

She pitched her voice a little louder than it would be if she was talking to herself, but not so loud that it was obviously directed at someone else. "I know FBI agents drink a lot of coffee, but this is ridiculous."

Granger's back stiffened, but he made no other indication that he had heard her.

She watched him walk back to the conference room and then turned back to Danvers. "Okay, I'm going to call this trucker back, and then we'll see if we need to get a flight to the Heart of Dixie." _Don Eppes, here we come_.

ooooooooooooooooooooo

Wednesday, March 24, 2008  
11:43 A.M. (Central)  
Kimberly, AL

"You're sure you don't want to stay around? I can always use more help with the horses."

Don shook his head and zipped shut the backpack Meg had given him. "Believe me, this is the nicest place I've been in months, but I've been here for over a week. I've got to get moving."

"There still hasn't been anything about you in the news, here or in California." She put on her blue baseball cap and tucked her ponytail through the back.

"That doesn't mean they're not looking," he reminded her grimly. "All it takes is one person seeing a wanted poster or a television broadcast. My partner and I caught more than one fugitive that way. It's a stroke of luck, but sometimes that's what it takes."

"Well, I hope they have terrible luck," she replied.

He smiled. "Thank you. And…" He gave a sweep of his arm. "Thank you for everything. I honestly don't know where I'd be if it wasn't for you."

Her cheeks were slightly pink. "You're welcome. So, are you ready to go?"

He rose and hefted the backpack. "Let's go."

After his initial wariness, he'd found Meg Raney to be exactly who she said she was: someone who was trying to help. She'd told him at length about her friendship with Gina, that despite the online nature of their relationship, she was the closest thing she had to a sister, and that she trusted her completely. "If Gina says you're okay, then you're okay," she had told him.

"Gina didn't take me into her home," he had reminded her.

"No, but she would have." They'd been brushing down a horse at the time, and she had paused to look at him, adjusting the baseball cap more firmly on her head. "There's a lot of people who would."

He scoffed. "Now that I find hard to believe."

So later that evening, she had shown him a couple of websites devoted to laying out the case for his innocence. It had been more than a little embarrassing to see himself as the subject of some fairly wild conspiracy theories, not to mention the number of people (mostly women) who said they would gladly find somewhere to hide him if he knocked on their door. Meg had rolled her eyes and clicked on to another page, but he could see a faint flush on her cheeks as she did so.

He didn't take most of the web pages seriously, but there were a few good ideas that he read about possible avenues to pursue or routes to take based on the evidence that had or had not been presented at his trial. He couldn't risk contacting any of the people who were posting to the sites; for all he knew, one of them was Javier or another law enforcement officer setting a trap for him. But there was a small amount of reassurance he could take in the fact that these random strangers seemed to be on his side—even if it seemed like some of them really needed a life.

Now, he had a one-way bus ticket to Richmond, VA, purchased online. According to the information he'd been able to glean from the Internet, that was the last known location of the killer Alex Brock before he was arrested. Don himself had been in custody by the time Brock's name was uncovered, so he'd never gotten to do the basic research for himself. Brock later died in jail, according to official reports, but the pictures he'd seen with the news stories confirmed that was a lie: Brock was the man he had seen two years after his supposed death, leaving Don's apartment building with Liz's blood on his hands.

"Do you think you'll find anything in Richmond?" Meg asked as she pulled her black pickup truck out of the driveway.

He stared out the front window at the patchwork of trees and fields they were passing. "I don't know," he said softly. "I don't know what else I can do."

She shot him a sympathetic look. "What about all of the other stuff?"

"What other stuff?"

"The corruption stuff. I don't know much about it, since the news articles always focus on, you know, the murder." Her voice had dropped with the last words, and she rushed on, "But weren't there a lot of other charges they were trying to pin on you?"

"Yeah." He looked out the window thoughtfully. "I guess I was focused on Liz, too." He still thought about her almost every day—it was impossible not to, given his current situation—but the pain of her loss was duller than it had been. It was almost like something that had happened to someone else, and the longer he put off dealing with her death, the more the heartache simply faded away.

She slowed to make a turn onto the freeway. "Well, in case you don't find anything in Richmond, that might be another place to start, right?"

"Yeah," he agreed. "I'll keep that in mind."

They drove in silence for a few minutes, until Meg said, "Whoops," and tapped the brakes.

His nerves instantly came alert. "What is it?"

"Oh, there's a speed trap up ahead. See that overpass?" She pointed to a bridge about five hundred yards ahead of them, with a dark shape that looked like a vehicle parked underneath it. "End of the month, too, so they'll be fixin' to fill their quota."

He gave the speedometer a nervous glance, but they were below the speed limit. Still, he didn't take his eyes off the highway patrol car until it had passed well out of sight behind them, thankfully staying put. "You might want to keep the speed down the rest of the way."

"Yeah," she agreed nervously.

He kept a sharp eye out for the rest of the drive, aware that he had let himself relax too much while inside Meg's house. It was back to his new world now, always keeping an eye out for the police, for security cameras, for anyone watching him a little too closely. He tugged on the brim of the baseball cap she had given him, watching warily as a police car drove by in the northbound lanes with a black sedan behind it that looked suspiciously like government issue. But it passed by without incident, and he turned his attention to the road ahead, already thinking about what he might find in Richmond.

oooooooooooooooo

In the northbound lanes, Dina Javier looked over at Tom Metzke in the passenger seat. "How much longer?"

He checked the map. "About ten more miles to Kimberly. There's a truck stop right off the road; I assume that's where he dropped Eppes off."

She nodded. "We'll start with the photos there and spread out in concentric circles. It's a small town; if he was here, someone must have seen him."

She could see the driver in the police car ahead of them lifting a hand in salute to his colleague parked under a highway overpass, waiting for speeders. In the southbound lanes, a black pickup truck rolled by.

Neither Don nor Javier ever knew how close they had come to the other.

oooooooooooooooooo

Saturday, March 27, 2008  
10:08 P.M. (Pacific)  
Parking Garage A, Los Angeles International Airport

The red-haired man opened his cell phone and dialed a familiar number. When the recipient of the call picked up, he said, "It's me. Can you talk?" while fighting back a yawn. It felt like one in the morning to him, and he'd been up since the crack of dawn running down their final leads in Alabama before catching a flight back home.

"Yes, ah can," came the accented voice on the line. "Can you tell me what in the hell is going on there?"

Tom Metzke sighed. "We must have missed him by hours."

"This is the third time you've come up emptier than a politician's promise. Ah thought this was going to be taken care of," the other man replied harshly. "Ah thought Javier was the right one for the job."

"She's good, sir." He shifted position in his seat. "It just appears that Eppes is a little bit better, or at least luckier."

"Well, our backer is growing quite impatient. Says he expected to have Eppes locked up a couple'a months ago."

"So did I," Metzke retorted. "We're working our asses off trying to catch up with this guy."

"Well, ah'm afraid that's not good enough." There was a pause, and then he went on, "Our backer wants to make this a competition of sorts."

He snorted. "Between us and who?"

"Between you and someone who is, shall we say, less focused on returning Eppes to custody in one piece."

"You mean a bounty hunter." Contracting out to the private sector was nothing new to law enforcement, even if it was often done under the table as his counterpart was suggesting.

The other man spoke deliberately. "Ah mean someone who will make sure that a guilty man is no longer goin' free. No matter what that takes."

Metzke closed his eyes. They'd already murdered one person to keep their activities covered; a second one was not what he had signed up for. "Are you sure this is what we want to do?"

"My de-ah boy, the federal court has already issued the sentence. We're just expeditin' its implementation."

He frowned, realizing they had little choice. The longer Eppes was on the loose, the more likely it was that he'd be finding out things that he shouldn't. If they wanted to keep a lid on their activities, silencing the fugitive was the only way. Besides, the director was right; they would only be hastening his inevitable fate.

"All right, what do you want me to do?"

"Any information you get concernin' his whereabouts, you pass on to this number." He read off a ten-digit number, and Metzke hastily scrawled it on the back of a gas station receipt. "He'll take it from there."

He stared at the number. How strange it was, the power that number represented. "All right."

"The longer he's out there—"

"I know, I know," Metzke snapped back. "I'm in this up to my neck too."

"Well, our backer is expecting results. And he's not the kind of man you want to disappoint."

"Yeah, I know." He'd read the FBI file on the man bankrolling their recent activities, and what he found had unnerved him. Nothing had been proven, of course, but it was apparent that the man had been involved in some fairly despicable activities, well beyond the web of lies that he himself had gotten caught up in. _Wonder what it was that got him in trouble with Eppes?_ he thought. _And got Eppes in trouble with him_.

"Is that all, Tom? Some of us need our beauty sleep more than others."

He let the yawn escape this time. "Yes, Director. I'll keep you posted."

He folded his phone shut and stared off across the roof of the parking garage. A plane was lifting off, a big one, and he watched the lights as it rose gracefully into the sky, seemingly defying gravity, until it disappeared into the low cloud bank overhead. So many people in the world, so many places they were going. How hard could it be to find one man when he was on the run from the law?

Metzke shook his head to clear it. He still had to drive home, and it was already quite late. He tucked the phone number into his pocket, trying not to feel like it was burning his fingers. Aside from brief moments in the field, in a standoff with a suspect or chasing someone down, he'd never held the power to end a man's life in his hands before.

It was a strange feeling.

ooooooooooooooo

A/N: To those of you who wanted me to give Don a break: I hope you enjoyed this chapter, but put your running shoes back on…


	12. 6a: You'll Never Walk Alone

A/N: Since I'm almost done writing this puppy, I can start posting it a little faster. Happy weekend!

Also, Chapter 6 is not exceptionally long; it's just split unevenly for maximum cliffhanger effect. (insert evil grin here)

Disclaimer and acknowledgments are once again in the Prologue.

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Chapter 6: You'll Never Walk Alone

Tuesday, April 29, 2008  
8:33 P.M. (Eastern)  
Washington, DC

Charlie turned the corner and strode on down the darkened street, grumbling to himself. Whoever had the bright idea to hold a major math conference in Washington, DC, at the same time that the cherry blossoms were in full bloom was an idiot. While the trees filled the Mall with fluffy, fragrant pink blossoms, they also filled the hotels with tourists. The conference hotel had been completely booked before he even registered for the conference, and now he was trudging a mile or more to the one hotel where he had managed to find a room.

He kept a wary eye out as he walked along the street. The neighborhood he was passing through wasn't the greatest, and although he wasn't spooked enough to take a cab from the conference center to his hotel, it didn't hurt to keep his eyes open. There were only a few other people out on the street, but they were also trotting along with their heads down, probably making their way home.

What was making him nervous was that here had been footsteps following behind him for a couple of blocks now. Come to think of it, they might have been following him for longer than that. He resisted the urge to turn around and look, not wanting to appear like a scared tourist worried about the big city streets. He did quicken his pace a little, and he was slightly alarmed when the footsteps kept up.

A few yards ahead was a traffic light, the walk sign turning from a white pedestrian figure to a flashing red hand. He broke into a light jog to get across before the light changed, and much to his dismay, the person behind him did, too. He glanced around worriedly, but there was no one else at the intersection, and since it was a residential neighborhood he was passing through, there were no stores nearby for him to duck into.

He stepped up onto the curb as the light changed and nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a familiar voice speaking from a foot or so behind him. "What, have you taken up jogging or something, Chuck?"

_Oh, my God._ He stopped dead in his tracks, not daring to say anything unless it was just a figment of his imagination. Was that his brother's voice?

"Keep moving!" Don hissed quietly. "I'm going to follow you to your hotel, okay?"

"Yeah, uh, sure," he muttered over his shoulder, fighting the urge to whirl and fling his arms around the man standing behind him. Instead, he walked at an even faster pace for the remaining few blocks, his heart soaring with every step. He had to force himself to slow down as he approached the Doubletree and passed through the revolving door without a glance for the person following.

Charlie crossed the carpeted lobby and entered the elevator, waiting to press the button for his floor until the figure in a dark peacoat, navy baseball cap, and glasses had entered behind him. He noted the security camera up in the corner and looked down at the floor, pretending there was no one else in the elevator as if it were a stranger standing next to him. A couple entered just as the doors were closing, an older man with graying hair and a younger woman with dark blond hair and glasses. The woman was saying, "I think Senator Cantwell was impressed with your proposal, Dad, but I'm not so sure about Senator Murray."

"Well, she's never been as friendly towards business as she could be, so it's hardly surprising." He pressed the button for the seventh floor, and they continued their conversation as if the two of them weren't there. _Washington_, Charlie thought. _It was all about who you knew and who you talked to. Kind of like academia, come to think of it._

The two exited at their floor, and Charlie waited impatiently for the doors to close. When the "ding!" sounded to announce their arrival on the tenth floor, he gave a little jump. He could barely hear the low chuckle coming from the elevator's other occupant, but the sound only confirmed that the person was who he thought it was. He walked calmly down the hall, looked in both directions to see if anyone else was in the corridor, and then slid his keycard into the lock and pushed open the door, gesturing for Don to walk in before him. He slipped in after him and waited until the door swung solidly shut.

The heavy curtains over the window were already closed, but Don checked them anyway. Then, as Charlie watched, he pulled the cap off his head and the glasses off his face. The familiar features were shadowed with stubble and the trace of too many sleepless nights, and he was leaner than he remembered, but it was unmistakably his brother.

"Don," he half-gasped, half-whispered. Then they were embracing, Charlie's eyes closing as he wrapped his arms around the person he'd missed more than he even realized. The Eppes family might not have been prone to hugging, but he felt in that moment that he was sharing months' or even years' worth of familial love. He felt Don grip him even tighter, and he rubbed his back soothingly, rocking back and forth a little where they stood.

After what seemed like several minutes, they drew back. "Let me look at you," Don said, ruffling his hair like he had when they were kids. "God, it's so good to see you."

"Yeah, it is," he echoed. "What…how…what are you doing here?"

"I heard this famous mathematician was giving a talk, and I didn't want to miss it," Don teased, the corners of his eyes briefly crinkling. Then he sobered. "Actually, I can't stay long. I just…" He gave a small shrug, then briefly looked down. "Would you believe I was in the neighborhood?"

Charlie put a hand on his upper arm and steered him towards a plush chair. "Why don't you tell me about it?" he said softly.

"Charlie, I really can't stay," Don protested as he sank into the chair.

"Just for a little while?" he pleaded. "Look, do you want some food? I didn't really eat dinner; I could order something from room service."

Don shook his head. "They'll wonder why you're ordering two meals."

"Then I'll order one big one." He put on his best puppy-dog expression. "Just for a little while," he repeated.

He could see the internal struggle Don was fighting playing out across his face as he consulted his watch. Finally, he acquiesced. "Okay, but not for long."

_Then why did you come at all_? he wanted to ask, but there was no way he was going to do anything to put Don on the defensive. He'd been given a gift here, and he wasn't going to ruin it.

He ordered a large steak and salad, throwing in a piece of cheesecake and a basket of bread for good measure. Don looked like he wanted to protest, but Charlie pointed a finger at him, and he didn't make a sound. If their father were there, he knew he would have some comments to make on Don's thinner build, but this wasn't the place or time for that.

When he was done, he hung up the phone and sat cross-legged on the bed, taking a moment to examine Don's features. His forehead had more lines in it than before, and his eyes were more haunted than Charlie had seen them except after a very difficult case. His entire frame radiated exhaustion but at the same time he had a watchfulness, a wariness about him that Charlie wasn't used to seeing in him. _Oh Don_, he thought sadly. _What have they done to you?_

Don must have seen him watching, because he looked away self-consciously. "How's Dad?"

Charlie shrugged one shoulder. "Okay. Well, as okay as any of us are, you know."

"No more problems with his heart?"

"No, he's been on high blood pressure medication and it's been working great. Millie kind of made it her personal mission to make sure he takes care of himself." He made a slight face. "He's been spending as many nights at her place as at home."

Don chuckled. "Hey, better there than at your place, right?" Charlie gave a rueful grin, and told Don some stories about Alan's latest clients. The business was going well, although their father had let Stan take the lead on most of their work because the name "Eppes" had been on the news a few too many times. He glossed over that part and hurried on to talk more about Millie and her latest changes to the math department at CalSci.

"How about Amita?"

Charlie looked down at the beige carpet. "We, uh, we've both been pretty busy lately." They hadn't patched things up after her ridiculous insistence that he turn Don's postcard over to the FBI, and the longer things between them were strained, the easier it was to slip back into their professional roles. Not that he had any notion of telling Don that; he'd probably blame himself for coming between them.

Don was studying him carefully. "I'm sorry to hear that, buddy."

"Yeah, well—" He started to say more, but there was a knock at the door.

Don was already out of his chair, gathering his coat and hat. He slipped past Charlie and into the bathroom, closing the door partially and leaving the light off. Charlie blinked. It was almost like he had never been there.

He opened the door, paid the attendant, and took the tray inside. It smelled delicious, and his stomach gave a small growl. He really had skipped dinner, but this was all for Don. He put the tray down on the table and went back to push the bathroom door open. "It's okay," he called softly.

While Don ate, he told him about the rest of his team. Megan was in charge now, partnered with a rookie from Kansas who was apparently overawed at being in such a big city for his first assignment. Charlie related the story of Matt's first takedown as Colby had told it to him, exaggerating the comic parts and minimizing the part where he had almost gotten himself killed. It produced the desired effect, and he went on, pleased at being able to bring a smile to his brother's eyes.

"Colby has been great," he said, nibbling on a piece of bread. "Everyone in the office knows not to say anything about you, or he'll just go off on them. Megan's not so overt about it, but she's been really supportive, too."

"She didn't get in any trouble, did she?" When Charlie frowned in confusion, Don went on, "I didn't know who else to call, but I tried to word it so that she, you know…"

"Oh." The initial news of Don's escape had been so long ago, he'd completely forgotten about it. "I don't think so, but I wasn't really spending much time around the office then. Megan's actually the one who, um, got me to come back and work with them again."

He looked up from underneath his eyebrows, hoping that Don wouldn't be upset by that fact. But he finished chewing his steak and said, "I'm glad you are, buddy. There's a lot of people out there who need your help."

"No one as much as you," he said, raising his head and looking at Don straight on.

Don indicated the plate in front of him. "I can't ask for more than this," he said.

And then an idea flared to life, and he smacked himself in the forehead for not thinking of it sooner. "Actually, I can do a lot more for you than that."

His brother's expression had turned wary. "What do you mean?"

He grabbed the backpack that he had discarded on the floor after entering the room and pulled out his laptop. "I've been working on a project that I think can help you find Alex Brock."

"How did you know I'm looking for him?"

He gave a quick shrug as he booted up the laptop. "I know you. You didn't go on the run to avoid being in prison. You're trying to find the person who really killed Liz. You think that's this Brock guy, and since the last time anyone saw him out of jail was in Richmond, that's probably where you've just been."

"Yeah, and all for nothing," Don muttered.

Charlie gave him a sympathetic look. "I figured that, or you'd have been in contact with Megan already."

He looked up to see a slow smile spreading across Don's face. "I've missed that brain of yours, Chuck."

"Don't call me that," he said, rolling his eyes. It was easily the most half-hearted protest he'd ever voiced.

There was silence for a moment as the laptop flickered to life. Then Don's voice broke in. "So, you didn't mention David."

"Oh." Charlie typed in his password. "Yeah, uh, he's decided to stay."

Don's voice was probing, the same tone Charlie had heard him use in the interrogation room on more than one occasion. "There was some question of that?"

_Crap._ He'd somehow forgotten that all of this would be news to Don, and not the good kind of news, either. "Uh, he wasn't sure for a while, but yeah, I think Colby talked him into staying." He busied himself with opening up the program.

"I see." There was silence, and then he said in a softer tone, "Come on, Charlie, spill."

He looked up into his brother's eyes. There were so many things he had saved up to tell him if he ever got the chance; there was a whole mental file of "stuff to tell Don" that he kept locked away rather than agonize over how much he wanted to share it but couldn't, everything from a case he had helped the team solve to something funny yet profound that Larry had said. He didn't want to waste any time they had together on something this potentially awkward. But at the same time, as his eyes searched Don's, he realized he didn't want to hide anything either.

"Okay." He took a deep breath and chose his words carefully. "See, after you…well…left, there were kind of mixed opinions about whether that was the right thing for you to do. Colby came down on one side, and David on the other, and…it was pretty awkward for a while."

"What about you?" Don asked quietly, his eyes boring into Charlie's.

_Perceptive as ever_, Charlie grumbled to himself. His hands stilled on the keyboard. "I'm not going to lie to you," he said at last. "I was kind of angry at first, and I guess David was, too. I just…I mean, I was working my ass off, Don, every spare moment I wasn't in class, and the three of them were staying in the office every night and every weekend after they finished the crap work they were stuck with, and we knew that sooner or later, we were going to find something to clear you. It had to be there, somewhere, but we were going to find it. And then—" He spread his hands. "And then all of that work didn't matter."

"Charlie." Don's face was pained. "It's not like I planned it, you know? I—there was this chance that opened up in front of me, and I knew it wasn't the greatest idea, but I couldn't turn it down. I wanted to believe that you guys were going to find something, honestly I did, but it all happened so fast, and then—"

"I know," he replied quickly. "I don't blame you at all. I got over that really fast. I…I can't even imagine what it's been like for you."

Don grimaced. "Yeah, well, it's been harder than I thought it would be. And that's really saying something."

"Well, let's see if this can help." He brought the laptop over to the table and drew up another chair. "It's something I've been working on for almost a month now, and I finally got it. I was going to test it one or two more times, but now…." He couldn't resist the impulse to lean over and give Don a one-armed hug. He was relieved to see a smile curl the other man's mouth, and to get the hug returned.

"Okay, tell me what you got."

"All right, so there's two parts to this, both elements of facial recognition software, or FRS. You're familiar with how that works, right?"

"Yeah, based on the news reports, that's how they found me in Ontario," Don muttered.

Charlie shook his head. "No, I think some poor rookie had to sift through hours of surveillance tapes. At least, that's what Megan told me, although her information was already secondhand. FRS has a lot of difficulty with three-dimensional images, although they're improving it all of the time. No, what I mean is more standard two-dimensional images: photographs. Remember that case in Claremont where you found the fourteen-year-old girl who'd been kidnapped by her father when she was eight?"

Don's brow furrowed and then cleared. "Yeah, Melissa Williams. Our tech guys were able to kind of fast-forward her second-grade picture, and one of her teachers saw it on the news."

"Right. See, you can think of every human face as a combination of a standard set of eigenfaces, which we get from a principal component analysis of the eigenvalues of a covariance matrix of a known series of faces." He saw the blank look and rushed on. "There's only so many possible configurations of our features, and we can start from a set of the most common and describe any face as a combination of those. There's certain nodal points that aren't going to change if you gain weight or age, like the width of your eye sockets or the curve of your jaw." He gestured toward the glasses and cap sitting on top of the dresser. "That's why glasses are surprisingly effective as a disguise; think of Clark Kent and Superman."

He paused, struck by the almost wistful look on his brother's face. "You have no idea how much I've missed this," Don murmured.

"I know. No one nods and pretends to understand what I'm talking about better than you." But his throat seemed to be closing around the words as he spoke them, and he had to look away.

After a moment, Don said, his voice also suspiciously thick, "Go on, Chuck."

"I told you," he warned, but he appreciated the jibe as a way to clear his head. "So. These nodal points don't change much as we age, unlike, say, your cheek or your forehead. We can take a child's face and, keeping the nodal points the same, alter other features like the height of the forehead or the fullness of the cheeks to simulate what they look like as they age."

"Like with Melissa."

"Right. Now, the most common application of this method is finding missing children, so that's where programmers have concentrated their efforts." He gestured at the screen between them and tapped a few keys. "However, with a little adjustment, there's no reason we can't do the process in reverse."

A face appeared on the screen, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Don stiffen. It was a mug shot from the Richmond, VA, police for Alexander Brock. He cast Don a slightly nervous glance and went on, "First of all, the difficulty comes in switching between 2D and 3D images. That's where something called surface texture analysis comes in. You can take a picture of a patch of skin and break it up into smaller blocks." He clicked on an icon, and the screen zoomed in to an extreme closeup of Brock's forehead. "Once we do that, we can measure distances between pores, the depth and position of wrinkles, and other unique characteristics."

Don had the familiar knitted brows and pursed lips that indicated he was following so far even if he didn't know where this was going. "Kind of like a fingerprint."

"Exactly. In fact, it's called a skinprint. And by comparing skinprints from different sources, like different photographs, we can greatly improve the match we get. So, for example, if we take that image and compare it to this one—" he opened a second window with a photograph that was clearly a still from a surveillance camera of a man with a baseball cap and goatee— "even if the facial features like the jawline are hard to match, we can compare skinprints." He clicked on another icon, and the screen zoomed in on the new image and showed a 100 match.

"Huh." Don's expression had turned more distant. "So, how many law enforcement agencies use this?"

"Not many. It's being developed by private companies, so it's up to individual agencies to purchase it, and depending on their budgets…" Charlie trailed off as he realized that Don had asked for a more personal reason. "Oh. Er, it's still largely in the trial stages. It's not really that common. I was able to replicate it with some work, but I don't think there's many other people who would be able to."

He received a sharp, probing look in response. But all Don said was, "So, what have you been doing with this?"

Charlie cleared his throat. "Well, I've combined it with a search engine that a colleague of mine has been developing to search images on the Internet not by image tags, but by the image itself. See, if you go onto Google and search for a picture, you're going to get results based on the text around the image or the filename that the user gave it when they uploaded it. So you can get some pretty weird results. It would be much better if you could search for something like the Eiffel Tower and have it pull out pictures matching this shape," and he made a swooping gesture with his hands to indicate the half-curved sides of the iconic tower.

Don's eyes had that glint that indicated he was matching Charlie's mental leaps. "Are you telling me you've managed to find images of Brock online based on the shape of his face?"

"I haven't tried yet, because I was trying to take it a step farther." He switched to another program, again showing Brock's mug shot. "I mentioned running the aging process in reverse." He clicked on the picture, and it started transforming: the forehead shrank, the cheeks grew smaller, and they were soon looking at an image of a teenage boy, not the killer he would become.

The furrowed brow was back. "I'm sorry, but I don't see how that helps. I'm looking for him now, not as a kid."

"Ah, that's where you're wrong." He turned to face his brother. "Alexander Brock was something else before he became a hired killer. He was _someone_ else." He paused and watched, hoping to see the light bulb come on over Don's head.

He was disappointed. "Charlie, they already searched all of his known aliases."

"That's right. All of his _known_ aliases." He opened a web page and typed a few lines into a command box in the middle. "What if we missed one?" He pressed "enter," and the browser went blank before showing a series of three faces.

Don peered more closely at the images, which were from the Chicago Sun-Times' online archived issues. He reached out to the touchpad and switched back to the program with a younger version of Brock. "Oh, wow," he said softly.

"If you compare these," Charlie said, switching back to the images from online, "using surface texture analysis, they are a match. You're looking at Alex Young, born and raised in Chicago, who later became Alex Brock."

Don sat back and thought for a moment. "Have you had any luck searching for Alex Young? Or for more recent images of Alex Brock, after 2005?"

"I haven't tried." He looked down at the floor. "I was too busy preparing for this conference. I haven't run the name through the FBI database, either; I'm sorry."

"Hey, it's not like you were expecting to run into me, huh?"

He looked up. "No, not exactly," he admitted softly as he felt a smile stretch across his face. "It's so good to see you."

"Yeah," Don agreed, his smile lingering for a moment before turning sorrowful. "You too, buddy. It's been great." And he started to rise from his chair.

"Wait," Charlie said, bounding to his feet. "You're not going?"

"I have to, Charlie. I…I shouldn't have come at all, but to know that you were so close and not try to see you…" He turned around and picked up the coat hanging over the back of the chair.

"Don, I—" His mind whirled, trying to think of something. "I have to get up early for the conference. You can stay here tonight and leave early when I do. No one will ever know."

"You can't know that," his brother responded quietly. "You have no idea who might wonder why there are voices coming from a room booked by a single person, or who might be reviewing surveillance video and notice something unusual, or who might walk by the room and see two shadows moving where there should only be one."

"It's a hotel. I'm sure there're plenty of rooms with two people in them when there were originally supposed to be one. Look, we can talk some more, figure out what we're going to do next."

"_We_ are not going to do anything next. Charlie, you have no idea how much I appreciate this," and he pointed at the laptop. "But I can't be in contact with you, I can't be talking to you. It hurts like hell that I don't know when I'm going to see you again, but that's the way it has to be."

He restrained himself from mentioning the postcards, hoping that Don wouldn't say that he had to stop sending those as well. He looked beseechingly at his brother. "You can't do this alone."

"You don't understand." Don planted his hands on the table and leaned forward, his eyes intense. "This isn't about me being stubborn and refusing to accept help. This is about what it means for you to get caught helping me. It means the end, Charlie. The end of your security clearance, the end of your job, and quite possibly some time in prison. Javier would love to put you behind bars if she can't get me. Do you get that?"

Charlie drew in a deep breath. He knew the implications of having Don there in his hotel room, at least in an abstract sense. The part of him that was confident his big brother would never do anything to put him in danger was wavering, realizing that he didn't always make perfect choices, and that maybe he would do well to listen to his head instead of his heart here.

On the other hand, no one said that you couldn't do both at the same time.

He spoke quietly, confidently. "Listen, it's still before ten o'clock. If you wait a couple of hours, there'll be fewer people coming in and out of the hotel, right? That means less chance of you being seen. You can, I don't know, take a shower or something."

The corner of Don's mouth turned up, almost in spite of himself. "Is that a hint?"

Charlie felt his shoulders relax. "Well, it might not be a bad idea." He had another idea of his own, and it was only going to work if he could get Don out of the way for a few minutes. "I'll just finish up with this program, okay?"

Don dropped his coat back on the chair with obvious reluctance. "I'm out of here by midnight," he said pointedly.

He spread his hands. "Whatever you say."

He watched as Don made his way into the bathroom and shut the door. He waited until he heard the water come on, then scribbled a note about going to the vending machine and slipped it under the door. Hopefully, he'd be back before Don even knew he was gone. He'd noticed an ATM in the lobby earlier, and even if he couldn't persuade Don to shelter there for the night, he could give him a little help on his way. He knew that his bank accounts were probably being watched, but based on the cases he'd consulted on, he knew that they were being watched for maximum withdrawals, and he knew what those limits were.

No matter what his brother said, he was not going to let him go through this alone.

ooooooooooooooooooo

6:55 P.M. (Pacific)  
L.A. FBI Field Office

Tom Metzke leaned back in his chair and cracked his neck. It was well past quitting time, which probably explained why he was almost the only agent left in the bullpen. With Javier closing things up in DC before making her permanent transfer to L.A., he and Chad Danvers had been keeping fairly standard hours for once, no racing off to distant states at a moment's notice or poring over camera footage until their eyeballs hurt. Not that he didn't want to do whatever it took to find Don Eppes and put him back behind bars, but he wanted a life, too. He had one more thing to look up, and then it was time to go home.

The computer in front of him dinged, and he looked up. A window had opened in the upper left corner, and he clicked on it. As he read, he slowly sat up straighter. He opened up a web browser and checked a few pieces of information. He pursed his lips. Could Eppes really have been so dumb, after all this time?

No matter. They had a great chance here, and by happy coincidence, they could have him before he even knew what hit him. He picked up his phone and dialed Dina Javier's cell number. Surprisingly, it went straight to voicemail. "Hey Dina, it's Tom. One of our little tripwires found something. Charles Eppes just withdrew funds from two different bank accounts, under the maximum amount, but within minutes of each other. And you'll never guess where. It was the ATM at the Doubletree in central Washington, DC. I'll, uh—" He stopped as a thought struck him. "I'll check back with you later."

He hung up and thought for a moment. Then he hurriedly switched off his computer, packed up his desk, and made for his car. At the usual location a few blocks from the office, he pulled over to the curb and fished out a small slip of paper from his wallet. Hesitating for only a moment, he dialed the number.

"Hello?"

He paused, not knowing what to say. How did one address a hired killer? "Uh, this is Metzke. He's at the Doubletree Washington, DC."

"You're sure?" The voice was clipped, precise.

"Well, no positive ID, but our records indicate suspicious activity on the part of his brother who's registered there."

"I see." There was a rustling sound in the background. "I can be there by morning. Tell your Director that I'll call when I have him."

"Okay—" The other man hung up, and Metzke was left staring at the phone. He slowly folded it closed.

That had been surprisingly easy.


	13. 6b: You'll Never Walk Alone

A/N: Just for future reference, this is Chapter 6 of 16. So yeah, there's still a ways to go. Hope you don't mind. ;)

Disclaimer and acknowledgments are—hey, guess where—in the Prologue.

oooooooooooooooooooo

Wednesday, April 30, 2008  
6:45 A.M. (Eastern)  
Doubletree Hotel, Washington, DC

Don awoke blearily, wondering why the bed was so much more comfortable than it had been the previous three nights. When he realized he wasn't in a fleabag near the Anacostia River where he'd been staying, but in Charlie's room, he sat bolt upright and looked at the clock. "Charlie?" he called out, but there was no response. He frantically climbed out of bed.

The last thing he remembered was coming out of the shower utterly exhausted. He'd made Charlie promise to wake him up at midnight, but the little twerp obviously hadn't done so. He had to get out of here, now. It was bad enough that the sun was up, but soon the streets would be full of people heading to work, and his odds of being recognized would go up exponentially, glasses or no glasses.

He snatched a washcloth from the bathroom and wiped off the table, the chairs, the doorknobs, anything he might have touched. He looked over the pillow and the bathtub, removing the few dark hairs that might have been either Charlie's or his. He gathered his few belongings and was heading for the door when he paused. Something didn't feel right. His cap was on his head, his non-prescription glasses were on his face, his coat was over his arm, and his wallet was tucked in his back pocket—weighing more than it had yesterday. He pulled it out and was stunned to see it crammed full of twenties. _Oh Charlie, what have you done?_

There was a folded piece of paper among the bills, and he pulled it out. _Hi,_ it read, _I know I won't see you when I get back this afternoon; you fell asleep so fast that I thought you really needed the rest. If you found this note, you found the other things I left you. I'll do the image search tonight and let the team know what I find. Good luck._

He crumpled up the note and grimaced. Across the room, the clock radio blared to life, and he hastened to shut it off. _A little late for that_, he thought. _I know you meant well, Charlie, but you're an idiot_.

He took the back stairs down to the first floor, making his way through the lobby as quickly and quietly as he could. When he got out onto the street, he paused for a moment to get his bearings. He'd been following Charlie so intently last night, not focusing on his surroundings as much as he should have, that he wasn't quite sure where he was. "Rhode Island Ave." read the street sign on the corner. Well, that wasn't one of the more well-known streets in DC, which was actually a good thing. He wanted to stay as far away from the heart of the District as possible. Figuring he was already north of the White House and its surroundings, he turned north up 17th St. to put himself farther away from that highest-of-security installations.

He strode briskly, head down, eyes constantly checking back and forth. Up there over a building's entryway was a video camera. Across the street down the block was a police car. Standing in the doorway he was passing was a man wearing a private security uniform. Behind him was a voice that called, "Hey, Don!"

His head started to turn automatically before he realized it wasn't Charlie's voice. He froze, stomach sinking and pulse pounding. _Oh God, the oldest trick in the book and I fell for it_. Call out the fugitive's real name, not his alias, and rely on his automatic response to verify he's the person you're after.

Don turned his head all the way around and instantly sized up the man behind him: five foot ten, thin build, tweed jacket, dirty blond hair—and a hand reaching into his inner coat pocket and pulling out something glinting of metal.

He whirled back around and started running for his life.

The street had a handful of pedestrians on it, and he had to figure his pursuer wouldn't fire as long as they were there. He strained his ears to hear behind him, but besides the startled gasps of the people he dodged and narrowly avoided running into, he heard nothing but pounding footsteps. No, "FBI, freeze!" or "Police! Stop!" If it were possible, his heart beat even faster. _Who the hell is this?_

He took a sharp turn to the right, entering a quieter residential street with narrower brownstones huddled together like people standing shoulder to shoulder. He ran past a woman walking her dog, and then realized there was no one else ahead of him in the block. He swerved towards the street just as a _pfft_ noise sounded behind him, and the whine of a bullet zinged past his ear.

He redoubled his efforts, calling on all of his reserves to get farther ahead. Looking up the block, he saw a broad cross street and realized as he got closer that it was one of the large circles interspersed throughout the city, where a series of roads came in like spokes on a wheel with green space in the middle. The road around the circle was about four lanes wide, and based on the closeness of his pursuer, there was no way he was going to be able to wait for traffic to clear.

Judging the speed of the approaching traffic, he mentally crossed his fingers and dove right in, holding out a hand to at least acknowledge the presence of the onrushing cars, even if he couldn't physically stop them. He'd done this in downtown L.A. once or twice in pursuit of a suspect, but it had scared him to death then when he'd had a badge to back him up, and it scared him to death now. The only thing keeping him going was the thought of what waited behind him if he slowed down.

A cacophony of horns and squealing brakes assaulted his ears, but thankfully, he felt nothing more than a rush of air as he dodged through four lanes of moving traffic. He risked a glance over his shoulder to see the blond man staring at him across the stopped cars, unable to raise his weapon and apparently unwilling to follow his path. Then he started running to the right, around the circle, his intentions clear: to cut him off at the other side.

Don turned and started running across the circular park in the middle of the rotary and bracing himself to repeat the experience on the other side. It went just as smoothly; he even recognized the same FedEx truck screeching to a halt, its driver letting fly a few choice words through the open window. He cut farther north, putting his head down and running as fast as he could.

The houses became shabbier as he ran, interspersed with run-down but still-operating corner stores and check-cashing centers, eventually dotted with lots that were either vacant or covered with parked cars. He ran until his lungs were bursting, and after casting glances back over his shoulder and not seeing anyone for at least five minutes, he slowed to a fast walk, gasping for air. A few more minutes of checking behind him, and he was convinced that he was in the clear.

He took note of the street signs he was passing and matched them up with his mental map of Washington. The nice thing about a city with letters and numbers for its street names, unoriginal though it was, meant that finding yourself at O St. and 1st St. told you how far and what direction you had to go to get to C St. and 19th St. One of his first actions on deciding to come to Washington was to check out his possible escape routes: the Metro lines, city bus lines, regional trains, and regional buses. With that in mind, he knew where he had to go in order to get out of town fast.

That meant he had plenty of mental effort free to berate himself for being so stupid as to come here in the first place. He was damn lucky that Charlie hadn't had an FBI agent tailing him, and he had no idea who the man was who had been chasing him with apparently lethal intent. As wonderful as it had felt to see his brother again, to talk to him and feel like himself again for a few hours, not to mention making some progress towards finding Alex Brock, it simply wasn't worth it. Because now all he could do was hope that whoever was after him wouldn't choose to go after Charlie instead—since he had absolutely no way to warn him.

ooooooooooooooooo

8:37 A.M. (Eastern)  
Washington, DC, FBI Field Office

Dina Javier was in a foul mood. It wasn't enough that she'd forgotten to turn her cell phone back on last night after one of the soon-to-be-former colleagues she'd gone out with had persuaded her to leave work behind for a few hours. No, if she hadn't been so stupid as to try and have a life of some sort and to spend some time with someone in the FBI who wasn't a charter member of the Free Don Eppes Club, she would have gotten Tom Metzke's message last night, and Eppes would be in custody right now.

Instead, she was sitting in a hard-backed chair across from his brother, having fished him out of the mathematical conference he was about to present in front of, waiting to hear him explain exactly what he had been thinking harboring a fugitive overnight.

Except, of course, he was denying he had done anything wrong.

"I took the money out because I thought I lost my credit card and I wanted to be sure I could pay my hotel bill."

_Yeah, right._ "From two different accounts, just under the maximum amount of each?"

He shrugged. "I've gotten in trouble with my bank before for trying to take out more than the maximum amount. I wanted to be sure I wasn't going to trigger their early warning system. See, their algorithm is designed to ensure that—"

"Who was in the elevator with you when you went up to your room last night?"

"I don't know." His brown eyes were confident as he spoke. In fact, she was surprised at his overall demeanor. Most people, the first time they were on the wrong side of the one-way glass of an interrogation room, were terrified, or at least fidgety. On the one hand, she had interviewed him a number of times before, enough for him to be familiar with what her former partner called her dartboard interrogation technique: sharp, pointed questions thrown without careful aim but with the likelihood that at least one of them would hit a bulls-eye. Having experienced it before, he might be better prepared to deal with it now.

On the other hand, maybe he didn't realize how much trouble he was in.

"When's the last time you heard from your brother?"

He blinked. "You mean talked to him?"

She pounced. "Has there been any kind of correspondence between the two of you?"

He was wearing an expression she was all too familiar with from years of conducting interrogations. He was considering how exactly to twist the words he was going to say so that technically they were true, even if they were obfuscating the truth. "We haven't corresponded since he escaped from custody."

She tried another tack, based on what the techs had told her before she entered the interrogation room. "Why did you have pictures of Alexander Brock on your laptop? Were you showing those to Don?"

He looked indignant. "What are you doing with my laptop?"

"It's evidence in an investigation, Dr. Eppes. An investigation of how you aided and abetted an escaped felon."

The lines around his mouth grew tight, and the family resemblance to her fugitive was clearer than ever. "I haven't done anything wrong."

Now there was an example of evading a question if she ever heard one. "So once our forensic team completes a sweep of your hotel room, they won't find evidence that anyone other than you was there last night."

If she hadn't been watching so closely, she would have missed the tiny flinch. But all he said was, "Hundreds of people have stayed in that hotel room. You can't confirm that a person was or was not there on any given night based on standard forensic evidence. The probability matrix corresponding to—"

"Do you know where he was going?" she cut in before he could veer too far off the track.

He started to say something, then stopped. Then he folded his hands in front of him and said a cold tone, "I have no idea where my brother is, where he has been for the past three-and-a-half months, or where he might be going. At no point during those three-and-a-half months have you or anyone from your team informed me or my father when you had news of Don's whereabouts, as we requested multiple times that you do. Unless you are going to charge me with a crime, I have nothing else to say to you."

Inwardly, she grimaced, although there was no way she was going to let her frustration show on her face. The forensic team wouldn't be done for hours yet, and two ATM withdrawals were slim evidence on which to hold someone. She knew that he was up to something, but at the moment, she had no way to prove it.

But she wasn't done with him yet. Charles Eppes was going to regret the day he hid his brother from her.

She rose from her chair and crossed the room. Opening the door, she beckoned to the junior agent standing outside. "Agent Evans, I want you to make sure this man's security clearance is revoked. I don't want him to be able to consult for the FBI or to see any of their case files. I don't want him to be able to walk into an FBI office without an escort. Is that understood?"

"You can't do that." Dr. Eppes shot to his feet, dark eyes blazing. "You haven't charged me with anything."

"Suspicion of aiding and abetting a convicted felon is grounds for revoking a security clearance," she snapped back. "See to it," she told Evans, and then stalked away.

God, her head was pounding. That was the last time she went out so late with friends, even on what was supposed to be her last day at this particular office. Eppes was in the same damn city as her, and she had no idea where. His brother probably had no idea, either, but it had been worth a shot. At least he wouldn't be hanging out at the L.A. office anymore, providing motivation for Reeves' team to eavesdrop on her own work.

She jabbed the elevator button. Downstairs, the tech geeks could rifle through hours of security camera footage in seconds. Washington, DC, had more cameras per square foot than anywhere else in the country thanks to its concentration of government facilities. One of those cameras was going to have footage of Don Eppes, and she was going to find it. And then she was going to find him.

oooooooooooooooooo

3:55 P.M. (Pacific)  
Bixel Street, Los Angeles

"It's Metzke again."

"Do you have any new information?"

_I guess that means you missed him this morning,_ Tom wanted to ask but didn't. "I've been in contact with the Washington office. They've identified Eppes on Metro surveillance cameras as traveling to the New Carrollton Orange Line station, then boarding a Greyhound bus."

"Destination?"

"Ocean City, Maryland."

A soft snort came through the line. "Maybe Bertha will take care of him."

Metzke frowned. Was that another assassin? "Who?"

"There's a hurricane on the way. Supposed to be the strongest one in years."

He sighed. "Well, Eppes is heading into it, and Agent Javier is right behind him."

"Hmm." There was a pause, and then he went on, "She wasn't part of the original arrangement, but the contract can be modified."

Metzke was puzzled for a second, and then his eyes widened. "God, no! An escaped fugitive is one thing, but an FBI agent—" He stopped as he realized what he was saying, or rather, how he was saying it. It was horrifying.

The assassin was speaking. "As you like. Again, I'll call when I'm done."

"Fine." He ended the call and sat there, lost in thought. Had he really just objected to having his supervisor killed not on ethical grounds, but on the grounds that it would be an strategic mistake?

He opened the phone to call the Director, but then closed it again. He wouldn't empathize. He'd tell him that they had to make some tough decisions to keep themselves in the clear, and that if worse came to worse, they might well have to "modify the original contract" in order to keep their backer happy.

Tom shook his head and started the car again. This whole mess was rapidly escalating out of control. Their only hope was that one of the two people on their way to Ocean City would find Eppes and end this thing.

ooooooooooooooo

A/N: Ooh, don't you just hate Javier right now? Don't you want to click on that review button down there and tell me how much?


	14. 7a: Thunder Road

A/N: Based on your reviews, I think that most of you are right where I want you. Mwa-ha-ha! Also, some of you are really good at guessing at least part of what comes next. Either that, or I'm more predictable than I'd like to think.

Disclaimer and thanks as before. Special thanks to R. and S. for taking me to Ocean City (and lots of other places, too).

ooooooooooooooooo

Chapter 7: Thunder Road

Saturday, May 3, 2008  
3:35 P.M.  
Sea Breeze Motel, Ocean City, MD

Don finished driving the last nail into the plywood and slipped the hammer into the tool belt. "Looks like you're all set, Mr. Edwards."

The white-haired man standing in the motel office doorway came over to inspect his work. "Nice job, son. Sorry that's all the work we've got for you; your timing wasn't the greatest, you know. Still, I'm guessing that after the next few days are over with, there might well be some work for a strapping young man who knows how to wield a hammer and a nail gun!"

"We'll see," Don replied, picking up the tool box at his feet. "What is it up to now, a Category Four?"

"Yeah, that's what they said on the Weather Channel this morning." Mr. Edwards shook his head. "We haven't had anything stronger than a tropical storm since Gloria in '85, and even that kind of skittered up the coast. 'Course, then there was the Ash Wednesday storm in '62, but that wasn't a hurricane. Waves still washed over the whole island, all three blocks wide. Now Bertha's supposed to hit us nearly dead-on." He chuckled. "Guess that's what you get for not reading the weather reports before coming out to the beach, huh?"

Don grimaced. It wasn't like he'd had much opportunity to read the news lately. After barely escaping with his life out of Charlie's hotel, he'd headed out of town as quickly as he could. Since there wasn't much land east of DC, he figured any pursuers would cross that direction off their list. He had found himself in Ocean City, MD, just in time to earn a few bucks helping a motel owner board up his property in advance of a major hurricane. "I thought it was too early for hurricane season."

"Should be," the other man said darkly. "Shouldn't be till August or September." He shook his head again, the gesture of a man who knew the world was changing and didn't like it. "This year's supposed to be as bad as '05, they say. As long as we don't get something like Katrina, though, this old place can handle a little wind and rain."

"You are evacuating, right?" Don asked as they crossed the parking lot to the maintenance shed.

"Oh, Roberta talked me into it. She's got a sister up in Wilmington. And it beats trying to take 50 along with everyone else."

Don nodded in agreement. The Greyhound that had taken him here from DC had followed U.S. 50 all the way to its end here at the waterfront. Along the way, it crossed the sole bridge over the Chesapeake Bay, a graceful span at Annapolis that was probably clogged with evacuees right now.

"You've got a place to go, right?" Mr. Edwards unlocked the storage shed. "I know you just arrived in town, but you should be heading back out."

_As long as there's room on the bus_, Don thought grimly. Otherwise, he was going to be taking his chances sheltering in place. He'd never been in a hurricane before, and the prospect didn't thrill him. Aloud he said, "Yeah, I'll do that."

"Well, don't take your time about it. There's only two routes off this peninsula, you know: the bridge and the road up to Delaware. Folks who decided to stay might change their minds once the wind picks up, and there's only room for so many cars at once."

"I'll keep that in mind," he replied as he removed the tool belt and laid it and the tool box on the shelf. He hadn't realized on the way out here how badly his escape routes were limited by geography, but given the coming storm, it was unlikely that he'd be found. "Thanks for taking me on, even if it was only to board up your windows."

"Well, it's a little harder to hold up those big sheets of plywood than it used to be. Tell you what," the older man said as he pulled out his wallet and counted out three twenties, "You come back after the storm and we'll see what other work needs to be done, hmm? Vacation season starts in a few weeks, and anything you can do to make this place more spic and span would be greatly appreciated."

"I'll do that," Don said as he reached for the money.

The motel owner didn't let go of the bills, and Don started to feel a little silly with both of them holding on. Then he said, "You know what…" He paused and shook his head. "No, no, I can't ask that."

He let go of the money, and Don slowly folded it away in his wallet. "Ask what?"

"Well, it's just that…" He squinted off across the parking lot. "I don't know how likely it is, but you hear all these stories about looters taking over when a lot of people clear out of an area. Now, I know you would probably rather get out yourself, and I don't blame you, but if you were willing to stick around and keep an eye on things, I'd be willing to offer some hazard pay."

Don mulled it over. It wouldn't exactly be a peaceful time, but a few days to himself to think things over might be exactly what he needed to get his bearings after the loop he'd been thrown for in DC. "What were you thinking?" he asked.

"Oh, keep the room that you're in and add $100 a day for yourself. I'd hate to see this place get torn up by some creeps looking for a free TV set or something. But again, it's totally up to you."

Inwardly, Don smiled. This man knew how to lay a guilt trip almost as well as Alan Eppes did. "I could do that," he agreed.

"Well, all right then. I'll tell Roberta; she'll be glad to hear it. We're telling all of the guests to leave, so there shouldn't be anyone else on the property but you. Now, don't you get any ideas about taking one of those TVs yourself, young man!" He chuckled. "No, I know a good, hard-working fella when I see one. You're not going to turn out to be some serial killer or something like you see in the movies."

_Guy must not watch "America's Most Wanted,_" Don thought bleakly. "No sir, you can trust me," he said, reaching over to shake the other man's hand.

oooooooooooooooooo

Sunday, May 4, 2008  
10:55 A.M.  
Sea Breeze Motel

"So as we head towards the noon hour here on the Eastern Shore, we are about ninety minutes away from landfall for what is still a Category Four storm." The newscaster's voice was strained as she battled the wind and rain, her bright blue slicker flapping around her. "Big Bertha is expected to hit immediately to the south of Ocean City, across Assateague Island and on across the Delmarva Peninsula, where it may drop to a Category Three. But Washington, DC, remains in the crosshairs of this dangerous storm, and for that, we turn it back to you, Paula."

Don hit the mute button and leaned back in the desk chair. He hoped Charlie had made it out of the city before the storm started shutting down the airports. He had already berated himself hundreds of times in the last few days for putting his brother at risk like he had. Charlie had been so insistent that he stay, and he had so desperately wanted to rest for one night, to put aside the consent watchfulness and nerves that he lived with every day and go back to being Don Eppes.

But it had been a mistake.

Upon further reflection, he didn't think Charlie himself was in any danger. Whoever the man was who'd been shooting at him, he was obviously after Don, since he had followed him halfway across the city. And taking a hostage to coerce a fugitive didn't make much sense if you couldn't get your hands on the fugitive. Besides, Charlie probably came back to his room to find it swarming with police. Which would be a whole other set of problems, of course. He shook his head, remembering his warning to his brother. He knew it was Charlie's own choice, but if he lost his security clearance or worse because Don hadn't been strong enough to stay away, he would never forgive himself.

The plywood over the windows rattled in the wind, and Don rose and crossed the room to look out the small window in the back office door. The hurricane itself might be some distance away, but the wind was already howling, and rain had started to fall earlier that morning. He'd been through some pretty severe storms in L.A., where the rain tended to fall in buckets when it did fall, and the Santa Ana winds could be strong enough to knock over trees or topple semi-trucks. Still, he had the feeling neither of those events would compare to what he was about to experience.

He mentally shrugged. Somehow, standing here in the face of a hurricane was simple compared to what he'd been living over the past ten months. All he had to do was huddle inside and hope the roof stayed put. Piece of cake.

A car pulled off the main road into the circular driveway outside the motel, and he listened the tires slow as the vehicle came to a stop outside. Probably another stranded traveler hoping to get a room. He'd already turned three of them away that morning, under strict orders from Mr. and Mrs. Edwards not to let anyone else inside. After the second one, he'd decided the main office was the best place to be, and he'd been ensconced there watching the storm trackers ever since.

He walked back to the front desk and waited. After this one, he was locking the front door and hanging up a "closed" sign. There was no use in anyone making the wet trek up to the front door if he was going to turn them away.

The door swung open, and the first thing he saw was a brown tweed jacket and dark jeans. His head whipped up, and he stiffened with shock as he recognized the man he'd last seen chasing him through Washington, DC. The surprised light was beginning to dawn in the other man's eyes when Don leaped backwards into the office, slamming the door behind him and heading for the back.

The outer door opened easily; caught by the wind, it sailed back to crash against the exterior of the building. He was already three strides away when that happened, dodging to the left to be out of his pursuer's line of sight when he cleared the door. The rain stung his face and began to soak through his black t-shirt within seconds.

He zig-zagged his way through town, listening for pursuit behind him. The streets were normally packed with people on a May weekend, but tourists and locals alike were long gone after the many warnings that the National Weather Service had issued. In other circumstances, he'd be grateful for crowds as a shield of sorts, a way to hide from pursuit. But now, he had the feeling he'd only be putting innocent people in danger.

The sudden bark of a gun and the whine of a bullet whizzing by his head brought that point home. It appeared that whoever was after him wasn't bothering with the silencer this time, given the empty streets they were running through. Swerving to the right, panting for breath, he raced up a narrow alley between two souvenir shops and found himself on the boardwalk.

He was dismayed to find that unlike the popular song, there was no "under the boardwalk" here. It was a row of planks laid out at the same level as the sand, lined with shops on one side and gleaming beige sand on the other. The wind was whipping his face now, coming directly off the ocean, and he could see whitecaps on the roiling waves. If he kept going in this direction, he'd be a sitting duck. The only thing to do was to stick as close to the storefronts as possible and run back between buildings when he could.

A gust of wind slammed into him, and he staggered before regaining his footing and running on. He could only hope that the man behind him was experiencing similar difficulties. A fleeting look over his shoulder told him that he was about a block and a half behind, so Don kept his head down and plowed forward. Never had he missed the weight of his Kevlar more, wondering every second if a bullet was about to pierce his back.

He swerved into an alleyway to his left. The buildings immediately cut the wind, and even the rain lessened a bit. He was next to a high-rise building that was either a hotel or condos, all presumably empty now with the hurricane coming in. He made another sharp left at the end of the building, heading back the way he'd already come, searching frantically for a hiding place. He wasn't going to be able to get away from his pursuer when there were only two exit routes out of town; he would have to count on hunkering down somewhere and trusting that whoever was after him would give up when the storm got too strong.

He hadn't seen any cars while fleeing through the streets, so the black Suburban driving by on a cross-street two blocks ahead, with a red and blue light flashing from the dashboard, instantly caught his attention. Ten months ago, he'd have been relieved to see a vehicle like that because it meant reinforcements were close at hand. Now, he was suddenly afraid that it only meant more danger.

Sure enough, the SUV suddenly screeched to a halt and roared into reverse. _Talk about a rock and a hard place_. He was too far away to see the driver, but he didn't have to. He bounded across the street and into a parking lot for a cottage motel, racing for the back of the buildings, then down another alley, across another street, the blood pounding in his head and all the while straining his ears for running footsteps behind him. He had long since been soaked to the skin, but the weather was the least of his concerns.

He dashed by the back of a house and skidded to a halt. There, underneath the exterior stairs. It was mostly sheltered from the rain, but more importantly, there was a good line of sight down both directions of the street. If he got behind the garbage cans, he should be able to duck low enough that he wouldn't be seen, but could still keep a watch out. He checked over his shoulder, saw no one, and slipped under the stairway and behind the trash cans.

His breath was coming in great gasps, but he forced himself to stay as quiet as possible. He doubted that his panting could be heard over the roar of the wind and the distant rush of surf, but better to be safe than sorry. He soon realized how right he was when a figure came running by from his right, tweed jacket dripping and gun at the ready. Almost close enough to touch, the man continued on past.

There was a loud bang from overhead, and Don gave a start, quickly reaching out to grab the garbage can he had inadvertently jostled before it tipped over. The gunman was looking upward, aiming his weapon across the street. Another gust of wind came by, and a loose shutter on the house across the street banged again. He lowered the gun and jogged on, turning the corner at the end of the block.

Don took a deep breath and dropped his head. That had been close. Now if he could stay hidden here until—

A second figure was approaching from the right: a tall woman, dark brown hair tied back, wearing a navy blue jacket that he was sure had FBI emblazoned across the back. _How the hell did she get here?_ He crouched down even further, willing her to go past without seeing him. He got a good look as Javier passed within three feet of him, noting the determined look on her face and the confident way she held her weapon out in front of her. She was moving quietly, or maybe the pounding of the rain was drowning out the sound of her footsteps. He held his breath until she had passed, feeling his heart sink. What were the odds that he could get away from _two_ people hunting for him at once?

He watched as she continued to make her way down the sidewalk, running in a half-crouch, head swiveling as she looked to both sides of the street. A movement caught his eye, and he turned to see the man in the tweed jacket again coming from the right. He must have done the same doubling-back trick that Don had, realizing that his prey had somehow managed to vanish along this stretch. _Here we go again_, he thought, holding perfectly still.

The man had been running with his gun down at his side, but as Don watched, he slowly brought it up in front of him. Squinting against the rain lashing his face, he was aiming at the only other person on the street, the person a hundred feet in front of him who was peering around the street corner, the bright yellow letters on the back of her jacket no more visible from this angle than the gun she was carrying, and her rain-darkened hair now the same shade as Don's own. With a sick feeling, Don realized that from this distance, the gunman thought it was him at the end of the block. And with her back to the two of them and the wind howling around them, the FBI agent had no way of knowing what was about to happen.

There was only one thing he could do.

"Javier, get down!" he screamed, springing to his feet and grabbing the lid off a garbage can. With a flick of his wrist that would have made any disc golfer proud, he sent it sailing through the air towards the gunman. The wind caught it and lifted it over the other man's head, but he still ducked, turning towards this new threat and firing.

Don felt something sting his upper left arm and jerked back against the side of the house, hand automatically coming up to his arm. He looked down to see a line of red on his bicep where the bullet had grazed him before coming to rest in the support post for the stairway. Another shot rang out, and he ducked below the garbage cans, watching Javier rising from where she'd hit the ground, racing back towards him with her weapon in front of her. To his right, the man in the tweed jacket was suddenly running away full-tilt, breaking to the left and then out of sight.

And then she was standing right in front of him.

"Come on out of there, Eppes. Hands up." She was calling loudly to be heard over the wind. Across the street, the shutter banged again, and she gave a quick glance over her shoulder, although her Glock remained steadily aimed at him.

He slowly stood up, heart hammering even more violently than it had while he was running. "I just saved your life!" he shouted against the wind. He'd never understood some of the stupid things that suspects said when they had clearly lost and were under his power, like anything they said would make him decide to let them go. All of a sudden, the impulse made perfect sense.

Her aim didn't waver. "Thank you. Now put your hands up."

"There's a man out there who took a shot at you!" he called incredulously as he slowly raised his hands into the air. "I'm not even armed!"

The rain was whipping into her face, and she was blinking every few seconds to clear her eyes. "Come out of there and kneel down," was her only reply, indicating the sidewalk in front of her. "Hands on top of your head, cross your ankles." She was holding her gun firmly in front of her despite the wind and rain lashing her face, and he knew he wasn't going to be able to grab it from her hands this time.

Panic started to build within him, a tightening of his chest that made his breathing come faster and his hands shake. He slowly made his way out of his hiding place, following her instructions to the letter. As he knelt down, he felt her gun pressing between his shoulder blades, and he fought back the overwhelming urge to whirl around and fight, knowing that this time, all he would get for his efforts was a bullet at close range. She fastened one handcuff around his right wrist, then pulled both arms down behind him and fastened the other, the gun never moving from its position in his back.

She quickly patted down his sides, back, and ankles, and then grabbed his left arm to pull him up. He hissed in pain and jerked back. There was a pause, and he felt her lifting up the arm of his soaked t-shirt to examine the track of the bullet. "You're fine," she called into his ear. "Let's go."

She dragged him back a few blocks to where the Suburban was half pulled up onto the sidewalk, lights still flashing. Shoving him in the center row of seats, she grabbed the seat belt with one hand and fastened it around him, her gun pressed into his ribs with the other. Then she climbed over the center console and into the front seat, never taking her eyes or her aim off of him until she was in the driver's seat and pulling the keys out of her pocket.

Don leaned his head back against the seat and tried to catch his breath. He couldn't believe this was happening. An hour ago the worst thing he had to worry about was the approaching hurricane, which, from the debris that was starting to blow around the streets, seemed to be upon them. Now his worst nightmare had come true, and he was overcome with dread. He barely registered the motion of the vehicle as they pulled off the curb and down the street, sharply rounding a corner onto the main road through town.

Why had he been so stupid? It was his visit to Charlie, he knew it. _Number one rule: fugitives seek out friends and family_. If he'd only been stronger, had fought back the urge to see his brother, he'd still be out there in the motel with only the wind and rain to contend with. Hell, he wouldn't be here at all. Now, despite the cracks of lightning and the accompanying booms of thunder that rolled overhead, he would have preferred to take his chances with Hurricane Bertha.

The steel biting into his wrists reminded him that he had no choice.

They were barreling down the main street, a tan Cadillac visible about a quarter mile in front of them. Javier spoke for the first time since getting in the SUV. "Is that his car?"

He looked up dully, trying to remember if that was the vehicle he'd seen out of the corner of his eye in the parking lot of the Sea Breeze Motel in what seemed like a lifetime ago. "I think so," he muttered.

She pressed on the gas, and they lurched forward. As she drove, she fished her cell phone out of her pocket and pressed a few buttons. "Hello? This is Special Agent Javier. I don't have Evans' number with me, but tell him that I have Eppes and I'm in pursuit of another suspect. Tell him to hunker down somewhere and I'll come back for him." She listened for a moment, then said, "All right. Thanks."

There was a bang behind them, and he turned to see a garbage can bouncing off a storefront. Don didn't know how to distinguish a hurricane itself from the storms that preceded it, but the overhead traffic lights were bouncing on their wires like a video clip from "Storm Stories", and he couldn't imagine the rain taking much more of an angle before it was completely horizontal. He thought of the high bridge over the channel off the island and grimly hoped they weren't headed that way. The broad side of the Suburban would be a wide target for the hundred-plus mile an hour winds at the heart of the storm, and he couldn't exactly swim in handcuffs.

They were gaining on the Cadillac, which suddenly turned left, tires squealing even above the noise of the pounding rain. "Hold on," Javier said as she hit the brakes and started turning the wheel.

_To what?_ Don wanted to ask, but said nothing, bracing himself as best he could as they made a tight turn. He had that same surreal feeling he'd had on the bus on the way to Lompoc, the feeling that this was all happening to someone else and that the real Don Eppes was still in his cubicle at the FBI office, still mooching dinner off his father and brother, still living a life of his own.

But that hadn't been true for ten months now, and he realized bitterly as he looked at the brown-haired woman behind the wheel that it would never be true again.

It was dark as twilight outside, and a flash of lightning cast a strange purple glow over everything. They were following the Cadillac onto the approach road to a high bridge arching over the inlet and back to the mainland. A gust of wind skewed the Suburban sideways, and Javier fought with the wheel before getting them back on the road. There was another sharp crack from outside, and Don suddenly realized with a chill that it wasn't lightning.

"Look out!" he shouted, but she was already slamming the brakes, twisting the wheel sideways. A cypress tree that could only bend so far before breaking had lost out to the wind, the trunk falling towards the road directly in front of them, the branches reaching out as if to embrace their vehicle. They skidded over the rain-slicked pavement, the brakes doing their best to stop their forward momentum, but it clearly wasn't going to be enough.

His last thought before they hit was that Bertha had gotten the better of him after all.

oooooooooooooooooooooo


	15. 7b: Thunder Road

The disclaimer and  
my heartfelt acknowledgments  
are in the Prologue.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

12:30 P.M.  
Ocean City Expressway

The first things Dina was aware of were the sound of rain pounding on the roof of the Suburban, the shudder of the vehicle in the wind, and the touch of what felt like a wet cloth on her forehead. She listened for a moment, the sharp ache in her forehead warning her that opening her eyes might not be something she wanted to rush. The cloth dabbed at her cheek, and she turned her head slightly. The touch disappeared, and she knew she was being watched. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered open.

The first thing she saw was the shattered but mostly intact windshield, the safety glass spiderwebbing outwards from a point in front of the driver's seat, water dripping in through cracks in the glass. A tree branch as thick as her leg was lying across the sagging windshield, and the trunk was blocking the road in front of the Suburban. She frowned in confusion as she realized she was seeing this from the rear seat of the vehicle. When she turned her head, her eyes widened as she saw Don Eppes carefully watching her, holding a wet paper napkin with streaks of red on it.

She instinctively brought her hands up to defend herself, or at least she tried to. When her movement was cut short, she looked down to see steel bracelets fastened about her wrists, the chain of the handcuffs looped through the door handle. A bolt of fear shot through her, and she was suddenly fully awake. She pulled back towards the door, lifting her elbow to ward him off while fighting off the dizzy spell that threatened at the corners of her vision. "Get away from me," she growled.

He held up his hands and backed off, sliding to the other side of the bench seat. She felt something trickling down the side of her face and reached up to touch it. Once again, the handcuffs prevented her from doing so, and she felt her hands curling into fists, her breath coming faster as the adrenaline kicked in. She swallowed, unable to look away from his face, trying to read in those dark brown eyes of his what he was planning to do with her.

_Get a grip, girl_, a voice in her head piped up. _If he wanted to hurt you, he had plenty of chances while you were knocked out._

Her gaze flickered down to the bloody paper napkin in his hand, and she realized what he had been doing when she woke up. Slowly straightening up and tilting her head, she managed to get a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. It wasn't pretty. There was a bruise forming on her forehead and a jagged cut over her left eye. She looked over the back of the driver's seat and saw the deflated airbag draped over the steering wheel. That must have been the whooshing sound she heard right before she lost consciousness. It also explained why her face was bright red: not from the pressure of the airbag, but from the heat of the chemical reaction that caused the bag to inflate.

She sat back against the seat and regarded Eppes once more. He still hadn't said anything but was sitting back and watching her figure out what was going on. She looked over his face in the dim glow of the overhead light and didn't see any injuries comparable to hers. The thin line of red across his bicep had widened across his soaked t-shirt, creating a darker band against the black cotton. His hands had dull red marks around the wrists, and she swallowed back a grimace at the thought of him groping around her waist for the handcuff key.

Figuring that taking the verbal offense was all she could do, she asked in a harsh tone, "What are you still doing here?"

His expression turned wry. "Figured it was actually safer in here than outside."

She snorted. "Maybe for you," she muttered as she looked around the interior of the vehicle.

A crack of lightning was followed instantly by a boom of thunder that made her rethink that statement. Okay, maybe it was safer for both of them, although she didn't see where—

He lifted his right arm and twisted slightly, and she could see the handle of her Glock sticking out of the back of the waistband of his jeans. She looked sharply at him, and he lifted his eyebrows and quirked the corner of his lips as if to say, _What did you expect?_

She leaned her head against the seat but then sharply brought it forward again. "Ow," she said, wincing at the sudden pain in the back of her head.

"Careful," he said. "That's where you hit the headrest."

"Yeah, I figured that out," she snapped back, shifting in her seat. "Why did you move me back here, anyway? How did you know I didn't have a neck injury from the crash?"

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the tops of his legs and crumpling the napkin in his hand before dropping it to the floor. "It was a low-impact crash," he said, nodding towards the front of the Suburban. "There isn't much danger from a neck injury because of the short distance between where your seat was and the airbag, but that's also why you were knocked unconscious—"

"Yeah, I read the safety memo on the design flaws of the Suburban, okay?" She cut him off, then realized with a jolt that she probably _had_ read the same memo as him, back in their respective field offices.

He jerked his chin towards the windshield. "Besides, that tree might not be done falling, and you don't want to be in the front seat when it does."

She looked up at the tree limb half embedded in the windshield. It was creaking in counterpoint to the howling of the wind and rain, the leaves shedding drops of water into the front of the SUV. A ragged splinter nearly as thick as her wrist was poking through the windshield over the driver's seat, probably accounting for the cut over her eye and looking like a shift in the tree's position would sent it slicing into the deflated airbag and anyone seated behind it.

Dina turned to look at the fugitive next to her, noticing the tense set of his shoulders underneath his waterlogged shirt and the way he shifted nervously at every sound from outside. _You wouldn't think he was the one with the gun_. "So why did you bother?" she asked, this time genuinely curious. "Wouldn't your life be a lot easier if I got impaled with that tree branch? Or if you hadn't alerted me to whoever it was who did that?" She nodded towards the dark line across his upper arm.

He stared at her incredulously. "What kind of a person do you think I am?" he demanded. Then before she could reply, he dropped his head and said with more than a hint of bitterness, "No, never mind. I know exactly what kind of a person you think I am. You've made that more than clear."

She regarded his profile for a moment: the high forehead, strong nose, and full lips that she was familiar with from a hundred different photographs and surveillance tapes as well as hours of interrogation. His hair was starting to dry, the longer dark strands forming gentle curls that were a contrast to the short, spiky FBI hair she was used to. He looked even more like his brother this way.

She thought of him an hour ago, jumping out from a hiding place she had passed right by, apparently saving her life while simultaneously guaranteeing his capture. She thought of him a moment ago, dragging her out of danger in the driver's seat and cleaning the blood off her face as carefully as if she were a trusted colleague. Where in the world did that fit in file #24601? "I don't know _what_ I think of you, Eppes," she finally said wearily.

He tilted his head to the right, looking at her sideways. "Well, that beats a 'cowardly, two-faced, murdering bastard,' I suppose," he said dryly.

She remembered that outburst from one of her final interrogation sessions with him. "Took those words to heart, did you?" she retorted.

The flash of pain in his eyes startled her, but it was gone so quickly that she wasn't sure she had actually seen it. He turned away, and she could see his throat working as he swallowed hard. Then he said, "So they caught Foster, right?"

She frowned for a moment, then remembered: the convenience store in Texas. "You incapacitated him pretty well," she said with a raised eyebrow.

A strong gust of wind shook the Suburban, and it briefly rocked back and forth, the tree branches on the hood thumping against the windshield. Eppes tensed, his right hand moving automatically to his hip, then gliding back to the weapon tucked into his waistband. "That was the plan," he murmured, resting his fingers on the handle of her Glock. "No matter what you might have thought."

Dina watched nervously, but after a few seconds with no further noises from outside, he relaxed and removed his hand. She said, "We found an additional surveillance camera in the back office that was on a separate circuit." She reluctantly added, "We know that you were as much of a hostage as the rest of them."

"I tried to tell you that," he muttered.

"I know," she replied. "It saved your ass in the end, right?"

His head whipped around. "I was trying to get out information. The officers on the scene needed a completely different strategy if there were two hostages and one gunman or one hostage and two gunmen. The duress code was all I could think of to alert you and them that Foster was the only one you needed to worry about." He gave a shake of his head. "It was a long shot, but I had to try."

She wasn't about to tell him that she had known perfectly well that he was speaking a duress code but had chosen to ignore it. No use in making herself look like an idiot. Aloud she said, "Still thinking like an FBI agent?"

He raised his eyebrows. "I did teach Tactics at Quantico, you know."

She knew. "That's where you met Liz, right?"

His gaze turned wintry. "I'm not going to talk about her with you," he said in a near-growl, turning away.

She opened her mouth to respond, then thought better of it. He was holding her gun, after all. Instead she asked, "So who was that guy I was chasing?"

"I don't know his name," he said, shrugging one shoulder.

"Have you seen him before?"

"He shot at me in Washington, yeah. Then he shot at me here."

She hadn't known about the earlier incident, and now her curiosity was piqued. "And he knows who you are?"

He was fidgeting with something small, turning it over and over in his fingers. It took her a moment to realize it was the key to her handcuffs, and her heart skipped a beat. He was saying, "Yeah, he knows. But he didn't give any kind of a warning, he didn't identify himself as law enforcement. Even a bounty hunter is required to make some sort of identification before pulling out a gun and shooting."

When she didn't respond, he looked up and saw where her eyes were focused. His long fingers closed around the key as they looked at each other for several seconds. "Don't worry," he finally scowled. "The storm'll get weaker soon and I'll be gone."

"Off chasing your phantom killer again?" she retorted. She had to at least verbally regain the upper hand after both of them had been so clearly reminded that she was his prisoner. "Now, would that be Alex Brock or Alex Young?"

Surprise and a flare of alarm flickered across his face before his expression went carefully blank. He said slowly, "Alex Brock is the man I saw leaving my apartment. He's the man who killed Liz."

She sat a little straighter, ignoring the way the cuffs restricted her movements. "According to your brother, that's only an alias." _Well, according to his laptop, but that's a technicality._

He leaned towards her, the capacious interior of the SUV suddenly seeming a lot smaller. "What have you been talking to Charlie for?"

Dina stared back into his flashing brown eyes. "I was questioning him with regards to aiding and abetting an escaped felon," she replied calmly.

The combination of anger and fear in his eyes fueled a small twinge of triumph in her. He _had_ been with Dr. Eppes, she knew it. He drew a deep breath that had a slight hitch in the middle and said intensely, "Where is he?"

"I have no idea. Probably back in Pasadena, with the laptop that has the files he was sharing with you. But in the meantime, his security clearance has been confiscated." If this was the only way she could get to Eppes right now, she was going to make the best of it.

He raised his fist and before she could even direct herself not to flinch, he pounded the seat between them. "You can't do that," he said in a dangerously low voice.

"Funny, that's the same thing he said," she responded as lightly as she could, her heart pounding.

He spoke in a low, quick tone. "Look, my team depends on him. He significantly increased our solve rate and introduced new techniques that put us light years ahead of other offices. Do you have any idea how many suspects we caught because of him that we wouldn't have otherwise? Do you have any idea how many people have _not_ been victims of crimes because of Charlie's skills and dedication?"

She didn't miss the fact that he was arguing based on his brother's value to the FBI, not on personal interest, but she ignored it. "Megan Reeves' team," she replied deliberately, "consists of four FBI agents, not five. Outside consultants are often helpful, but if we rely on them too much, we run the risk of not being able to think for ourselves. And when those consultants run afoul of the law, they can't possibly be allowed to continue working for the Bureau."

"You're making a serious mistake," he said grimly.

Her voice turned steely. "Is that a threat, Eppes?"

A muscle in his jaw twitched before he spoke. "Look, I've been in your situation before."

_I'll bet you have,_ she thought, thinking of the steel encircling her wrists, but she kept quiet.

"I've been frustrated after months of chasing someone around the country, and I've taken it out on their family and friends by threatening them or otherwise making their lives miserable. It doesn't help, and you'll regret it later."

"It's not a question of helping, it's a question of obeying the law, something you and your brother don't seem to be very good at." She pressed on. "Who is Alex Young and why are you looking for him?"

His eyes were cold. "This isn't an interrogation, Javier. I don't have to answer your questions."

She met his glare with one of her own. "No, but it might be in your best interests to, if you have information about this man whom you claim really killed Liz."

He looked at her searchingly, turning sideways on the bench seat to face her straight on. The Suburban rocked in the wind again, but this time it was being pushed from a different direction. The hurricane was passing by, the winds changing with the rotation of the storm. Finally he shook his head, lips pressed together. "You wouldn't believe me anyway."

She raised an eyebrow. "What, you never found out that someone you had been chasing or that someone you had investigated or even convicted later turned out to be innocent?"

"Don't." The one word was spoken so darkly that she blinked, stunned by the emotion behind it. He put his left hand down on the seat and leaned towards her. "Don't you _dare_ say something like that unless you mean it."

Fear flickered through her as she stared into his eyes from about two feet away, their brown depths shot through with anger and even hurt, the lines around the corners of his eyes tight with barely suppressed fury. The arm he was pressing down on was lean and powerful, the sinewy tendons standing out over the tense corded muscle. She took a deep, steadying breath, reminding herself that he had saved her life not so long ago, and if he wanted to hurt her, he would have had plenty of opportunity while she was slumped in the driver's seat.

Then again, she wouldn't have been doing anything in an unconscious state to provoke him. Unlike the cheap shot she had just unleashed in an attempt to trip him up and get him to admit something about his brother.

"All right," she said quietly, looking down at her cuffed hands resting on her lap. "I'm just trying to figure out why someone would be after you."

The look he shot her told her that he thought otherwise, but instead he said, "Yeah, that's a really good question to ask yourself. Why the hell would a man who's been convicted of a murder he didn't commit and is trying to find the person who _did_ do it be on someone's hit list?"

"According to your version of events," she said under her breath.

He sat back and rubbed his hand over his jaw. "You never give up, do you?" he muttered.

"No, I don't," she said pointedly.

He sat there for a moment, thumbnail resting between his parted lips, jaw not quite resting on his closed fist. He was regarding her very seriously, almost as if he were judging her. Finally he said quietly, "If there was a way to search online for images of a person who was supposed to be dead, and if images of that person could be found from after the date they supposedly died, you'd have to admit they weren't a phantom, right?"

She opened her mouth, but he was going on. "And if you were able to find images of that same person from a time much earlier in their life, you could find out not only their aliases, but their original name."

Dina turned that over in her head for a moment, her mind racing down the familiar pathways of this case and wondering what new side branches Eppes might have just uncovered, comparing what he told her to what she could remember of what the technicians said they saw on Dr. Eppes' laptop before they had to hand it back to him. There were a thousand questions she wanted to ask him, starting with why he thought he could trust her with this information, but what came out of her mouth was, "Did your brother tell you these things?"

The hand near his mouth turned into a fist, and he briefly closed his eyes, the lines around his mouth tightening as he pressed his lips together. She had the absurd feeling as he turned his head away that she'd failed a test, and she didn't know why that suddenly bothered her.

Then he looked out the window of the SUV and said quietly, "The rain's getting lighter. That's all I was waiting for."

She realized that there were fewer cracks of lightning than there had been when they crashed into the tree, and that the booms of thunder now followed after several seconds of delay. She looked over to see him opening the door, the rain and wind still hitting him, but not lashing as fiercely as they had been a few hours ago. He was halfway out of the vehicle when she called, "Hey Eppes, don't I get my gun back?"

He turned and shot her a look that said, _Not on your life_. Aloud he said, "There's someone out there trying to kill me, whether you believe it or not. Sorry, but I have to be able to defend myself."

She raised her eyebrows. "You know that this means you'll be designated as armed and dangerous."

He knew. She could read it in the tight set of his jaw and the resignation in his eyes. But all he said was, "You do what you have to do. And so will I."

Then, to her surprise, he reached out and laid the handcuff key on the seat where he had been, well out of her immediate reach, but still in sight. "You're going to leave me here like this?" she demanded.

He leaned back into the vehicle and said, "You're persistent. I'm sure you'll get it eventually." Then he slammed the door shut and was gone.

She pursed her lips and stared after him as he clambered over the fallen tree and started jogging over the bridge they had been trying to cross. It took less than a minute for him to be swallowed up by the storm, although the sky was getting a little brighter behind the falling rain. She gave the handcuffs a frustrated tug and got only a cut on her right wrist for her efforts.

She frowned and considered her options. The key was out of reach at the moment, but her cell phone was sitting on the console between the front seats. If she reached out with her foot, she should be able to curl her toes around it and pull it towards her. She'd call Evans, tell him to get his rear over there and let her out, and then they'd—

Damn. They had no vehicle to take off after Eppes with. She stomped the floor in frustration. Once she got a hold of her phone, she could at least get an APB out to the local police to watch for a fugitive on foot. There weren't too many routes for him to take, and they'd be able to cover them all pretty easily. Assuming the storm hadn't knocked out too many power lines or required too much emergency assistance in other towns, that is.

She locked that thought away with the other, more uncomfortable thoughts that had been triggered by her conversation with Eppes, and concentrated on reaching the phone. One thing at a time.

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A/N: All subtle suggestions and cute reminders aside, I am dying to know what you think of this chapter. Please tell me!


	16. 8a: Further On Up the Road

A/N: Hurray, I've finished writing! Please keep in mind that I did finish this story before the new season starts, as I've already seen one thing in the promo that was _highly_ coincident with something coming up in a later chapter…

Even if I've responded to you by PM, I want to thank you again for reviewing. That last half-chapter was one of my favorite parts of the whole story, and I'm glad it was well-received. Now it's time to see if those seeds of doubt germinate…

Also, simanis and Patty and Alice and Lyra (and anyone else who mentioned Charlie)? You're good.

Disclaimer and acknowledgments are in the Prologue.

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Chapter 8: Further On (Up the Road)

Monday, May 12, 2008  
4:45 P.M.  
L.A. FBI Field Office

"Thanks again for your help, Charlie," Megan said, patting his shoulder as she passed him standing at the entrance to the team's cubicle.

Charlie shrugged and leaned against the corner of David's desk. "I'm glad I was able to help." He really meant it, too. After nearly a week of anguish and fury at Agent Javier for revoking his security clearance, he'd gotten a phone call from A.D. Wright informing him that said revocation no longer existed and that Megan Reeves' team could use his assistance on a drug-running case. He'd raced over to the FBI office before they could change their minds, and in one short day, he'd helped them identify a money laundering operation in the South Bay that was key to an entire drug organization. Now all they were waiting for was the junior member of the team, Matt Haskett, to come back with the warrant for the bust planned for that night.

"Yeah, well, any time she tries that crap on you again, you come to us first." Colby addressed him from his seat at the opposite desk.

Charlie looked down. The trouble was, he _knew_ that he had broken the law, and he knew that by all rights, he _should_ be in serious trouble, which didn't leave him any room to complain. He was about to reply when he saw that Colby's attention had turned to someone behind him, and from the way the other man's eyes were narrowing, he had a bad idea who it was.

"Excuse me, Dr. Eppes. May I have a word with you?"

Geraldina Javier's voice instantly raised his hackles, and he stiffened. He schooled his features as best he could to keep from showing the flash of fear that he felt as he turned around, but he suspected that Megan, at least, had caught a glimpse of it.

Colby was rising from his desk chair with the lazy grace of a panther, placing himself between Charlie and Javier. "Wright reinstated his security clearance," he said in a warning tone.

David chimed in from his seat, "Something about Charlie being the most indispensable consultant this office had ever seen, and there was no way that a personal vendetta was going to disrupt that."

"I know that," Javier said, much more calmly than he would have expected. She startled him even more by saying, "And he was right to do so. This is about a different matter."

Charlie placed a hand on Colby's upper arm and nudged him aside. With the larger man in the way, he could hardly see Javier. "What is it?" he demanded.

"I need to speak with you in private," she said, raising a hand to tuck a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear. He noticed a jagged red line over her left eye, marking what had probably been a nasty cut a few days ago but was nearly healed, and her forehead was faintly mottled, as if there had been a bruise there that hadn't quite disappeared.

He spread his hands wide. "Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of them." It was a gamble, considering that he hadn't told any of them what had happened in Washington. But then, considering the egg on Javier's face after Wright had overridden her request to cut his clearance, he didn't think she would do anything to dig herself deeper in a hole.

Besides, having witnesses might be a good idea.

"All right." She drew herself up to her full height, which was an annoying three inches taller than him, and looked him in the eye. "Have you had any success in your search for online images of Alex Brock or Alex Young from after August 2005?"

In the corner of his mind, he registered Megan's gasp and Colby's head whipping around to look at him. But his attention was focused on the woman standing in front of him. "When did you talk—" he started, and then clamped his mouth shut. The only way she could have known what he was doing was if she'd talked to Don. But he couldn't very well ask her if she'd talked to Don, because that would mean admitting that _he_ had talked to Don.

Her look was piercing. "Just answer the question, Dr. Eppes."

He felt three pairs of eyes on him besides hers as his mind raced. Why would Don have told her what he was up to? How could she have coerced that information out of his brother and yet not have him in custody? More importantly, why did she want to know? He looked at her for a moment longer, seeing in her golden-brown eyes not the anger and determination he had shrunk away from while she was interrogating him, but something he often felt on his own face: the desire to _know_.

Besides, as furious as he still was at her, he was more than happy to tell her the answer, knowing all of the implications it held. "Yes," he said firmly.

"Charlie!" Megan's exclamation was echoed by Colby's, "What the hell, Charlie?" But all he saw was Javier's eyes closing and her head bending forward, a gesture of confirmation and defeat all in one.

"I think you'd better tell us what's going on," David said slowly.

Charlie raised his hands, looking at his three friends. "I was going to tell you guys as soon as it was verified. This is a new methodology, completely untested, and I didn't want to say anything until I was sure." As desperately as he wanted to shout out that he had proof Don wasn't lying about seeing Alex Brock at his apartment building right after Liz's murder, he needed to be one hundred per cent positive. "There are still a few more tests to run before we can verify that the method is statistically valid, and then I would have told you, honest."

"Does that include me, as the agent of record?" Javier asked quietly.

His head snapped up. "I didn't think you'd be interested," he retorted.

She folded her arms across her stomach. "What if I told you I was?"

Megan broke in, her voice cutting. "I'd ask you what the hell happened to change your mind."

Charlie watched as Javier drew in a slow, deep breath. Then she said, "I didn't say I've changed my mind. I merely wanted to know if there is any new, admissible evidence that might change the outcome of a pending appeal."

"Bullshit." Colby cut in with more venom than Charlie was used to hearing from the former Army man. "What kind of game are you playing here, Javier?"

She didn't respond to him, but looked at Charlie and said formally, "If you do come up with positive results from your search, I would appreciate it if you would bring them to me. And only me."

He narrowed his eyes. "Give me one good reason." How dare she walk in here and demand something like this, after what she had tried to do to him only a week ago?

"Because someone trusted me enough to tell me that you were working on this. I think that should tell you something." She held him with her gaze for a moment longer, then turned on her heel and left.

Charlie leaned back against the desk, glad for its substantial surface behind him. He was afraid his knees might give way otherwise. If what she said at the end was true—

"Charlie, what is that supposed to mean?" Megan's voice was sharp.

If what Javier said was true, he couldn't tell anyone. Because that would mean explaining how he had been in contact with Don, and he couldn't ask the three of them to keep that information to themselves. Loyal as they all were, there was no way he could ask them to compromise their integrity. He'd barely managed to twist the truth enough to get out of Washington without being arrested, but there was no way he could pull that off with these people. They knew him far too well.

"It means," he said, straightening and hoping his legs would hold him upright, "that I have some work to do." He licked his lips nervously. "Good luck on the case, guys."

He got in a few steps before Colby's hand clamped down on his bicep. "Hold it right there, Charlie."

He turned around, a stricken expression on his face as he glanced from one member of Don's team to another. He desperately wanted to tell them, to explain why Javier's question had rattled him so much and how his assessment of his brother's situation had been turned completely upside-down by the few words she had said. But he didn't dare. "Don't ask me, please," he finally said. "I can't tell you."

Their expressions were nearly identical: Colby's frown, David's furrowed brow, and Megan's evaluative gaze, all trying to read him and figure out how they could persuade him to tell them what was going on. He swallowed and stood up straighter, shaking off Colby's hand. There was no way he could stand up to the three of them at once, but he was going to do his best.

To his surprise, Megan said, "All right."

He heaved a sigh of relief, but she stood up abruptly. "But you will tell us as soon as this method of yours is verified."

He nodded eagerly. "I would have told you in a couple of days anyway."

"What about Dolores Umbridge over there?" David interjected quietly.

Megan snorted, breaking the tension, and Charlie felt a grin creeping across his face. Colby frowned. "Who?"

"Man, you need a niece or nephew to read Harry Potter with." David clapped his partner on the back.

"I'll take care of her," Charlie said, taking a couple of steps towards the exit before anyone could stop him. "I'll talk to you later." And then he was off towards the elevator as fast as his legs could take him.

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Saturday, May 17, 2008  
8:04 P.M.  
Laurel Valley, PA

"One more row and we're done for today, Dave."

Don stuck his pitchfork into the ground and leaned on it for a moment, scratching at the short beard that he still wasn't used to. "Just in time, too," he said, nodding at the setting sun.

The blonde woman working on the other side of the row of grapevines followed his gaze towards the rose-and-gold horizon. "Beautiful," she said after a moment. "You know, that's one of the reasons we bought this vineyard in the first place. Kevin and I came out here for a wine tasting and fell in love with the place when we saw the sun setting over the hills. It went on the market a few months later, and we dove right in."

Don pulled out the pitchfork and started digging again, turning over the ground to remove the weeds that were poking out through the soil. "Did you know it was going to be so much work when you bought it?"

She let forth a peal of laughter. "Heck, no! That's why we keep putting out ads for handymen. The problem is, most of the work is seasonal, so we can't hire someone on full time. Ethan's not old enough to do much of the hard work, so we have to rely on people who don't mind a few weeks' worth of work at a time. Lucky for us you were passing through."

"Mm-hmm," Don agreed, attacking the ground again. "Lucky for me, too." Charlie's money wasn't entirely gone, but he was loath to spend it all without a way of replenishing his meager wealth.

He'd headed west after escaping from Javier, back to hitchhiking and walking, and he'd ended up in southwestern Pennsylvania a week after Bertha blew through. Fortunately for him, the storm had taken a northerly turn, sparing him from days of slogging through wind and rain. He'd been searching the classifieds in a local paper when he'd seen one looking for help on a small vineyard, the Blue Dolphin Winery. It seemed ideal: a location off the beaten track, short-term employment, and the kind of labor he could throw himself into and leave his mind free to wander over the implications of his conversation with Javier.

He stabbed the ground with the pitchfork, ripping away roots and weeds and slinging them off to the side of the row. He knew it had been a mistake to try and trust her, dangling that information about Charlie's research on Alex Brock in front of her and hoping she bit. Her reaction had confirmed his worst fears; she wasn't interested in finding out the truth about Liz, she only wanted to catch him, or Charlie if she couldn't get her hands on him. He no longer dared to send his brother a postcard as he'd been wont to do from time to time, assuming that his mail was being watched by Javier and her team. And he doubted she was putting much effort in finding out the identity of the person who was after him. Which meant he was completely on his own.

"I have to run into town once we're done, so you're free to borrow the computer if you want," she was saying.

"I appreciate it," he replied. One unexpected perk of the job at Simone Schmidt's winery was that she allowed him access to her computer and its Internet connection when she wasn't using it. Her twelve-year-old son Ethan had his own computer, and since her husband was frequently away managing the two restaurants he owned, there wasn't anyone using the machine if she was away. He'd already made use of it to start looking into the information Charlie had provided him, searching the Chicago Tribune and Sun-Times online archives for any mention of Alexander Young. The problem was, it was an awfully common name. He'd found a medical student doing his residency in Wisconsin, a chef at a French restaurant downtown, and a sculptor with a studio in the northern suburbs, none of whom were the right age. And with only an hour or so at a shot, it was going to take him a while.

But he shouldn't complain. He was fairly confident that no one would be able to track him down here, and though he wasn't planning on staying for long, it was a nice place. Simone was friendly, the room over the garage was spacious and dry, and he was even earning a few dollars besides room and board. He jabbed the pitchfork in the ground again and silenced the inner voice that said something was going to have to go wrong soon.

For example, there was still the matter of the man in the tweed jacket. If he thought for a moment that he was putting the Schmidts in danger by being there, he would be out the door. But after a week with no signs of pursuit, he was cautiously optimistic that at least for now, he was safe. He still carried Javier's gun tucked against his ankle inside a thick pair of socks, but that was more so he knew that it wasn't somewhere that a twelve-year-old could get his hands on it than because he was afraid of having to defend himself at a moment's notice from his unknown pursuer.

The problem was that in thinking about the chain of events, he could come to only one conclusion as to how the gunman had found him: through the FBI. It was too much of a coincidence that in both cases, he had shown up moments before Javier had. After all, Charlie's conference was ending on the day that Don woke up in his hotel room; if Javier had caught up with him there, she had been hours away from catching up with Don himself. Ocean City had been even closer. To his investigator's mind, that was no coincidence. Both of his pursuers were getting their information from the same source.

He could just imagine the FBI agent's reaction if he had the chance to tell her his theory. She was so inflexible when it came to his case, she would simply laugh if he suggested there was someone inside the FBI who was after him. Of course, it made perfect sense from his point of view; there had to be someone on the inside who had re-arranged the evidence from Liz's investigation to point towards him, and presumably it was the same person who had recently ordered a hit on him. There was no way Geraldina Javier would believe that, though. Don grudgingly admitted to himself that in her situation, he would be unlikely to, either. He'd cornered too many fugitives himself who spun wild tales of conspiracies and elaborate frames to greet any of their proclamations of innocence with anything less than a healthy dose of skepticism.

Of course, given his situation, he'd started wondering how many of those wild tales might actually be true.

"That's good for now, Dave," Simone called, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. "Soon it'll to be too dark to tell the vines from the weeds."

He followed her back to the work shed, stowing the pitchfork next to hers before heading up to the small room over the garage where he'd been staying. He needed a shower and a trim, if not a shave, and then it was time to get some research done. He didn't know what he would do with Alex Brock/Young once he found him, but there would be time enough to figure that out later. For now, information was what he sought, and he was eager to get back to the small bit of investigative work that he could still do. It wasn't the same as having the FBI database at his fingertips, but at least it was something.


	17. 8b: Further On Up the Road

A/N: Go ahead, catch your breath now. You'll need it later. ;)

Like, the disclaimer and acknowledgments are, like, totally in the prologue. You know?

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Sunday, May 18, 2008  
2:45 P.M.  
Eppes house

Dina knocked on the door and waited, shoulders back and spine straight. When Dr. Eppes had suggested on the phone that they meet at his house rather than either of their offices, she had granted him the advantage of being on his own turf. Truth be told, she was surprised he had called her at all. Nearly a week had passed since she confronted him in the FBI office, and she had figured he had decided not to cooperate with her after all.

The door swung open to reveal the curly-haired mathematician, his face showing mild distaste at her presence. "Come in, Agent Javier."

She nodded brusquely and stepped inside. She'd been to this house before, early in her investigation into Liz's murder. The Craftsman design reminded her of the house she had grown up in, the warm wood and well-shaded interior a natural match to the California climate. She was reminded as she glanced around at the framed photos and welcoming furniture that it was definitely a home, not just a house. The pictures of Don Eppes scattered throughout were slightly jarring to her, given the context in which she'd last seen the man, but they also brought home how important this conversation was that she was about to have.

Dr. Eppes indicated the dining room table, where a laptop was softly glowing. She chose a chair across the table from the computer, settling into it and folding her hands on the tabletop. "Thank you for calling me," she said, a little stiffly. It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she was surprised, but she didn't want to get this meeting off to a bad start before it even got underway.

He sat across from her, pushing the computer aside and looking intently at her. "I have to be honest with you," he began. "It took me a very long time to decide to, and I'm still not sure I'm doing the right thing."

"I can appreciate that," she replied.

He drew in a deep breath. "The thing is, you said that someone trusted you enough to tell you what I was working on. Before I tell you anything, I need to know how and why that trust was earned."

"I'm sorry, but I can't tell you that." _In part because I don't understand it myself_, she thought ruefully.

He reached out and closed the lid of the laptop. "Then I'm sorry you wasted your time by coming here."

"Dr. Eppes, you've been consulting for the FBI for how long now, three years?" When he gave a short nod, she went on, "You know that agents can't discuss cases in progress with people who are not part of the investigation."

"How is this a case in progress?" he asked quietly. "A verdict has already been rendered."

She pressed her lips together. He wasn't making this easy. Not that she should be surprised, but still. "The case I'm currently assigned to is apprehending a fugitive, not investigating the charges that led to his conviction."

He rose from his chair so abruptly that it toppled over, striking the hardwood floor with a loud clatter. When he spoke, his voice was shaking with rage. "You mean this is all a trick to use me to find where Don is?"

She out held her hands placatingly. "No, it's not like that." _Damn it, I blew it again_, she couldn't help thinking.

"Get out." He raised a hand and pointed towards the door, his eyes boring into hers as intensely as his brother's had in the back of the Suburban two weeks ago. "Get out of my house."

"Please." She raised her hands higher. "I—I'm not saying this the right way, and I don't blame you for being angry. But I promise you, I am not trying to trick you into telling me where your brother is."

He slowly lowered his arm and regarded her for a moment. Then he asked in a tone with more than a hint of suspicion, "Why not?"

Dina almost laughed. "Because believe it or not, you're the only person who can help me right now."

The thoughts she had been turning over in her head ever since her forced conversation with Don Eppes had led her to this place, and the irony of it was painful. The one person whose help she needed most was the one least likely to trust her. _Well, second least likely_, she amended, thinking of the bitter disappointment in Eppes' eyes when she had brushed aside his suggestions on Alex Brock in order to try and interrogate him about his brother.

His thick brows knitted together. "I don't understand."

Now it was her turn to take a deep breath and look him straight in the eye, knowing how much was riding on the words she was about to say and on his reaction to them. "I can't tell you the details; I'm sorry. Suffice it to say, your brother took quite a gamble in telling me what he did. And if he were here, he would probably tell you not to trust me any farther than you could throw me." She folded her hands again and plowed on. "I know you personally have great reason to mistrust me, and that my roundabout way of talking here hasn't helped any. The only thing I can say is, if you can verify what you told me the other day—if Alex Brock is in fact alive—then suddenly you, Dr. Eppes, become the only person I can trust." _And if that isn't laying all my cards on the table, I don't know what is,_ she silently added.

Never taking his eyes off of her, he leaned down and picked up the chair, slowly righting it before lowering himself into it. "What in the world happened between you and Don?" he asked cautiously.

Dina sighed. She couldn't tell him that Eppes had saved her life two weeks ago while sacrificing his own safety, because that would mean explaining that there was apparently a hit man after his brother. A call to the DC police had confirmed that shots were fired in the vicinity of the Doubletree Hotel on the morning she suspected her fugitive of being there, which backed up the story he had told her during the hurricane. For the same reason, she couldn't point out the troubling incongruity of sending an assassin after a man who had already been sentenced to death. And she couldn't tell him that Eppes had taken only minimal advantage of her driving into a falling tree, because that was just plain embarrassing. That left the not-actually-dead man whose presence she was here to inquire about, although it was really the combination of all four that accounted for her sleepless nights over the past two weeks.

"All I can say is, I've recently been forced to question a lot of assumptions I had about your brother and his case. I don't have enough reasons yet to formally reopen that case, which is why I said I'm here in pursuit of a fugitive."

"You weren't planning on telling me any of this," he replied, his eyes narrowing.

She shook her head. "Not unless I had to, no." Obfuscation hadn't gotten her anywhere with him; maybe honesty would.

"Why me?" he fired back. "Why would I be the only one you can trust, when you were trying to arrest me not so long ago? Why not one of your colleagues, one of your team members?"

Dina hesitated. This next part was particularly delicate. "Because I know he was with you in Washington." She held up a hand to forestall his protest, but to her surprise, he stayed silent, his liquid brown eyes locked on hers_. That was interesting_, she noted. "And because if Brock is alive, then someone inside the FBI has been part of this from the beginning. And I have no idea who that might be." She leaned slightly forward and fixed him with her gaze. "But I think you already knew that."

He nodded slowly and sat back in the chair. "We've all known that," he said with more than a trace of bitterness.

Her hand was still upraised, and she slowly lowered it to rest on the table. "I don't have enough reason _yet_," she repeated meaningfully and held her breath, waiting for his reply.

He was searching her eyes, his expression equally wary if less haunted than his brother's. On the other hand, considering that he wasn't the one running from the law, he actually looked more vulnerable. He finally said, shaking his head, "I still don't understand."

She let out a whoosh of breath. "Look at it this way," she tried. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"Oh, I don't know, I could tell you where Alex Brock was seen two weeks ago, you could go there, run into Don, and apprehend him. Seems like a worst-case scenario to me."

"And how would he know where to go? Are the two of you in communication?"

He looked away. "No."

"Then how would he know where to go?" she pressed.

"That, I'm not willing to tell you." His expression was set and defiant.

God, this was almost funny: the two brothers fighting like the devil to protect each other from her without even knowing they were both doing it. "But you are willing to tell me where Brock was spotted two weeks ago?"

He gave a slight grimace. "Four weeks, actually."

Dina wanted to pump her fist in triumph at getting through to the man seated in front of her at the same time that she wanted to bang her head against the table in frustration and regret for all of the months she might have wasted chasing the wrong man. "So he _is_ alive?" she asked, wanting to make no mistake about this most crucial of points.

He paused one final moment before saying, "Yes." He opened the laptop and tapped on the touchpad a few times before turning it towards her. She opened her glasses case and slid on her reading glasses. The screen showed a shot of a large city plaza with a portion of the image highlighted and enhanced, focusing on a single individual. The features were slightly indistinct, but the aquiline nose and narrow eyes matched the sketch Eppes had drawn all those months ago. The Picasso statue in the background was equally distinctive. "Chicago," she breathed.

He nodded. "This picture is from a blog entry from last week; the photo was taken in mid-April. According to our method, there's an 89 per cent probability that this is Alex Brock." He moved his finger around the touchpad again and pulled up a different image, this one a newspaper photograph of a handful of people walking down a sidewalk and unsuccessfully trying to shield themselves from a gust of wind; one had an inside-out umbrella. "This one is from early March, also Chicago. It's an 82 per cent match." He gestured at the screen. "There are seven others from after August 2005, two in Chicago and five elsewhere, all with at least 75 per cent validity."

She stared at the screen, unable to believe that a supposedly-dead hired killer would be so stupid as to allow himself to appear in a newspaper photo. "What are the matches based on?"

He briefly explained the concepts behind photo recognition and skinprints, emphasizing how the combination of both methods gave particularly good results. He started to describe how he and his colleague had created the search engine that found these images, but she waved him off. "Who else have you shown these to?"

He swallowed. "No one."

She looked at him sharply. "None of Reeves' team?" She found that more than a little hard to believe.

He rubbed his chin with a gesture reminiscent of his brother's. "The thing is," he said carefully, "none of them know exactly why you tried to have my clearance revoked."

She pondered that for a moment. None of them knew he'd been in contact with Eppes. She supposed that made sense, if he was trying to cover his ass and make sure none of them had any potentially incriminating information on him. It also made what she was about to say a lot easier. "Then I need you to continue keeping this from them."

His eyes turned hard. "No way."

"I already told you, I have no idea who has been covering this up." She pointed at the screen. "No idea. Who would have an easier time of it that someone who had worked closely with your brother?"

"No way," he repeated, shaking his head firmly. "Don would trust any one of them with his life, and so would I."

"That may be, but I don't know any of them. And until such time as I decide it's okay, you need to keep this to yourself." He started to speak, but she cut him off. "You don't have a choice. I can always decide to revisit your suspicious activities in Washington."

He glared furiously at her. "And I can always tell A.D. Wright that you're harassing me and have you removed from Don's case."

She had the stronger argument, and they both knew it. But what she said after a pause was, "I know this is a very strange situation for both of us. I know I have no right to ask you to trust me, but at the moment, I am. If I can get concrete proof in Chicago that Alex Brock is alive, I will reopen the case and revisit all of the evidence. But I can't do that until I know who I can and cannot trust."

"You said that Don would tell me not to trust you." When she nodded reluctantly, he went on, "Why would he say that?"

"Because I wasn't ready to hear what he had to say." She dipped her head slightly to the side and went on, "I'm still not sure that I'm ready, but I don't have much of a choice, given what you just showed me."

He drew in a deep breath and laid his hands flat on the table. "I'll give you a week. I owe it to Don's team not to leave them in the dark any longer than I have to. Make whatever threats you like, but that's the best I can do."

She was already impressed with Dr. Eppes' ability to choose exactly the right words to walk a tightrope between lying and self-incrimination, but now she also respected him for his ability to stand up for himself. And to realize that as difficult a decision as this was, she was the only one who had the possibility of helping his brother, remote as that possibility might be. "All right," she agreed, extending a hand across the dining room table. "Seven days."

They shook hands, and she knew she wasn't the only one of them to appreciate how bizarre that felt. "Seven days," he echoed.

oooooooooooooooo

Tuesday, May 20, 2008  
6:45 P.M.  
Laurel Valley, PA

"Dave, I have to take Ethan into town for some supplies for school, so the computer's all yours after dinner."

"Thanks, Simone." He scooped a helping of tossed salad into his bowl and passed the bowl on to the sullen pre-teen on his left. Ethan Schmidt had barely said two words to him the entire time he'd been there, although Simone had assured him that he was often quiet around the transient workers who stayed with them. He didn't like the looks the boy kept shooting him from the corner of his eye, although he supposed he would be suspicious, too, of any man eating dinner with them while his father was away. He shook his head. Paranoia had saved his skin once or twice already, but if he could just keep his head down for a few more days, he'd be out of here.

With nearly daily sessions online, he'd managed to narrow down the multitude of Alex Youngs to two people after remembering that one of the pictures Charlie had shown him was of a Little League team in a northern Chicago neighborhood. From there, he'd gotten an address for one of the men, but since he still wasn't sure which was the person he was looking for, he still needed the other one as backup. "You said that you only have a couple more days' work for me, right?" he asked Simone.

"That's right," she said regretfully. "All there is to do now is wait for the vines to start flowering. Come back in about a month; there'll be lots of pruning to do then."

He gave her a quick, half-hearted smile. "We'll see." He had no idea where he'd be or what he'd be doing in a month, but he did know that returning to a place he'd already been was asking for trouble. Fortunately, he hadn't seen more than a handful of people during his time here—the mailman, the occasional FedEx driver—but it was definitely time to move on. He kept looking over his shoulder while working out in the vineyard, half-expecting to see Javier walking between the rows of vines, or worse yet, a man in a tweed jacket carrying a gun.

They ate quietly for a few minutes until Ethan's voice suddenly broke the silence. "Who's Alex Young?"

Don nearly choked on his mouthful of mashed potatoes. When he recovered, he replied, "Who?"

Ethan stole a glance at his mother before replying. "You were looking him up on the computer."

"Ethan!" Simone reprimanded him. "That's invading Mr. Evans' privacy. How would you like it if he went looking through your computer?"

"I wouldn't, but—" He looked back and forth between the two of them and finally blurted out, "Mom, he's a bad man."

Don froze. Would this explain why the kid was always looking at him with suspicion? What exactly did he know?

Simone was saying, "What do you mean by that, honey?"

Ethan bit his lip and looked down at his plate. "I saw his picture online. His name's not Dave Evans. It's Don Eppes."

Don's heart was hammering as he slowly put his fork down and started to push his chair back. If Simone recognized his name, he was going to have to bolt out of here as quickly as he could.

Her expression was puzzled as she turned towards him. "Is that true? Is your name really Don?"

He glanced at Ethan, whose wide eyes confirmed that there was more he hadn't told his mother. The kid didn't know only his name, he knew exactly who he was. He started to rise and said calmly, "Thank you for everything, Mrs. Schmidt, but I'm going to have to be leaving now."

She stood up abruptly, the chair skidding back over the wooden floor. "Who exactly are you?" she asked, the tone of her voice tinged with fear. "What's going on here?"

He held up his hands and took a step back. "I don't mean any harm to you and your family, and I never have. Right now, I just want to leave." He noted the reassuring weight of the gun against his ankle, not because he was afraid he was going to have to use it, but because he had the feeling he was about to make an abrupt departure.

Ethan slipped out of his chair and leaned over to Simone, whispering in her ear. She gasped and put a hand up to her mouth. Don took a few more steps back and had almost reached the door when she said in a firm tone, "Stop right there."

He opened his mouth to reply when they all heard it at once: the faint whine of sirens coming up the long driveway. He shot a look at Ethan, who had a proud expression that indicated he was the one responsible for the police being on their way. His mouth tightened, and without saying anything else, he whirled and ran for the door.

The scraping sounds behind him indicated that the Schmidts were trying to get around the table, but he had too much of a head start. He was across the family room and out the back door in a matter of seconds, the screen door slamming shut behind him. He paused only briefly as he ran to pull Javier's Glock out of its impromptu holster, not wanting to risk losing it during his flight.

The Blue Dolphin Winery was at the end of a long drive, perched on the top of one of the rolling hills that characterized southwestern Pennsylvania. Fortunately for Don, that meant he had a downhill start. Unfortunately, that meant he was highly visible to anyone approaching on the driveway that wound along the top of the ridge like a snake's spine. He ran parallel to the rows of vines that he had been working on that very afternoon, cutting between rows when he could. His goal was the forest near the edge of the property, where he would hopefully be able to lose any pursuers. He couldn't remember much of what the surrounding area looked like, but he was pretty sure there were no roads in this direction.

A shout came from behind him, up at the house. He was too far away by now to make out the words, but the intent was clear. He risked a glance over his shoulder to see one uniformed patrolman heading his way, the other climbing back into the car and heading back down the driveway, presumably hoping to cut him off somewhere. There was only a handful of rows of vines left, and then he'd be into the undergrowth.

There was a second shout, and he swerved sharply. The warning shot sailed over his head and thunked into one of the poles holding up the espaliered vines. Knowing the next one wouldn't be aimed to miss, he pushed himself harder, clearing the vines and plunging into the thick undergrowth as he heard the gun bark for a second time. He swerved around a tree and put his arms up in front of him to shield his face from the branches and twigs he was whipping past. He missed one, and it whapped his cheek, causing him to cry out. He was already making so much noise crashing through the bushes that an extra shout wouldn't hurt too much, but he still cursed himself for not keeping as quiet as possible.

Up ahead, the ground appeared to drop away more abruptly, and he realized he was reaching the stream that marked the border of the Schmidts' property. He briefly considered hiding underneath the overhanging bank, but rejected that. Outrunning two local cops was easier than outrunning the search party that would surely follow them, once they radioed in that they had a fugitive on their hands.

Don leaped across the small stream and charged up the opposite bank, painfully aware that the tougher terrain meant the gap would be closing between him and his pursuer. He stumbled on a rock and went down, hands automatically coming out to break his fall. He scrambled to his feet as quickly as possible, snatching up the gun that had fallen out of his hand, and lumbered on, glancing over his shoulder to see a grey uniform coming to the edge of the creek now a thousand yards behind him. He took off at an angle to make the climb less steep and to change his direction.

A distant rushing sound caught his attention, and he concentrated on it as he ran. It wasn't the sound of water; he had left that behind at the bottom of the hill he was running up. The sound came again, closer, and he realized that it was traffic. Not a local road, judging by the volume of vehicles, but a fairly major highway. He considered his options as he leapt over a fallen log and dodged a low-hanging elm branch. On the one hand, a highway offered the possibility of a fast getaway. On the other hand, cut-up and bruised as he was, he wasn't likely to be offered a ride, and there was always the possibility that the police car had been headed in this direction for just this reason. So he veered off to the left, the sound eventually growing quieter as he wove through the trees.

He ran for what felt like hours, although a check at his watch told him it had only been twenty minutes. The sun was still an hour away from setting, so he couldn't rely on darkness to help him out. He tore down another hillside, watching his footing carefully, threading his way through hemlock and chokecherry bushes. He hadn't heard any sounds from behind him for a little while now, but it was safer to assume the police officer had fallen back, not given up. It looked like there was a break in the trees ahead; maybe there was another stream to cross.

Don burst out of the woods onto a railroad track that stretched straight in both directions as far as he could see. There was a light visible off to his right, and he stepped back for a moment before realizing the train was receding, not coming towards him. His eyes lit up. _Perfect_. Freight trains rarely had cabooses anymore, so there would be no one riding in the back to see him hitch a ride. He turned down the track and pushed himself to keep running from one tie to the next, always growing a little closer to the slow-moving train as it struggled to climb a grade that was barely noticeable to him on foot, but was a challenge to the heavy train cars. He paused only briefly to tuck the gun back into his sock and pull his jean leg over it before plodding on.

Finally he was within a few feet of the last car, and he reached out and swung himself up onto the edge. It was a container car, with no way to get inside or even climb onto the top, but it would do. He checked the sun and realized gratefully that the train was heading west; just the way he wanted to go. There wasn't enough room to sit down, so he clung to the side of the container, catching his breath and willing his legs to hold him upright for as long as it took to get out of Pennsylvania and on to where he wanted to go.

He shook his head, thinking of what had just happened. He couldn't blame young Ethan for trying to protect his mom from someone he saw as a bad guy, but he wished that the kid could have waited two more days to voice his suspicions. In the meantime, he'd ride this train as far towards Chicago as he could, since that seemed to be where his best chance at winning his freedom lay. "1229 North Clybourn," he repeated to himself over and over as the train rolled along. That was the address he had for the former Alex Young, and the only scrap of information he had to keep him going.

oooooooooooooo

Friday, May 23, 2008  
7:12 A.M.  
Chicago FBI Field Office

"Agent Javier?" The blond secretary smiled. "Director Boudreaux will see you now."

"Thank you." She crossed the deep-pile burgundy carpet and knocked on the heavy wood door, entering at the deep-voiced "Come in!"

She was instantly struck by the magnificent view of the Chicago skyline to the northeast with Lake Michigan sparkling in the distance behind it. Inside, everything was mahogany and brown leather, the dark colors of authority and power. The man rising from his seat behind the desk looked the part of the director of the third-largest field office in the country, his dark brown hair graying at the temples and his face showing experience more than age.

"Director," she said, extending her hand. "Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice."

"My pleasure, Agent," he said, reaching across and shaking her hand. "Ah understand you wanted to talk privately about a particular case."

"That's right," she said, sinking into a plush chair in front of his desk at his gesture. "This is a confidential matter, although it does involve an active case."

He steepled his hands in front of him. "Ah recognize your name, Agent Javier. This wouldn't be involving the former Agent Eppes, would it?"

She inclined her head. Of course the Director would have done some research after her last-minute call requesting a meeting so private that she had kept it from even her team, telling them she had taken personal time to finish transitioning from Washington to L.A. "Yes, it would. I have recently come into the possession of some information that suggests he might be on his way to Chicago."

"Really?" His Southern accent shortened the vowel on the end of the word. "Ah was given to understand that he was spotted in Pennsylvania last night."

"That may be true," she replied, thinking of the voice mail from Chad Danvers that had been waiting when her plane landed at O'Hare at five-thirty this morning. "But I believe that his route is going to take him here." _Besides, he's only one of the reasons I'm here, although no one but Dr. Eppes needs to know that._

"Ah must admit, if that's the case, ah find it more than a little strange that you would be keeping that information in confidence. Ah would expect you to have an entire team here."

She folded her hands on her crossed knees. "The problem is, Director, this information of mine, if it turns out to be true, throws a great deal of doubt on his conviction, which then implies that someone within the Los Angeles field office is the real guilty party."

His eyes widened. "Someone in your office?" He tapped the tips of his fingers against his chin. "Ah see your dilemma."

She nodded once. "That's why I'm here; I was hoping to be able to use the resources of your office to conduct my search, but since I'm technically here on personal business and not an official FBI matter…"

Boudreaux spread his hands wide. "Any assistance you require, we will be happy to provide. This case has been difficult from the start for you, ah'm sure, and ah appreciate the precariousness of your situation. Ah wish you success with your search."

"Thank you very much, Director." She rose from the chair and extended her hand again. They shook hands, and he followed her to the door, informing his secretary that she was to be given whatever assistance she requested, but to keep her presence there as quiet as possible. Dina watched as he went back into his office and shut the door, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Now, if only the rest of her trip could go so well.

ooooooooooooooo

A/N: You didn't think I was going to write a story based on "The Fugitive" and not include Chicago on the itinerary, did you? And you know that any action story set in Chicago needs to include a chase scene on (fill-in-the-blank in your review), right?


	18. 9a: Where the Streets Have No Name

A/N: It is at this point that I need to offer special thanks to the speakers of the conference I was at this summer in the city where this chapter takes place. If they hadn't been so boring, I wouldn't have needed to keep myself occupied by sketching the outline of what became this story. To them, therefore, this chapter is dedicated.

And mikiss gets a cookie for being spot on about what a Chicago chase scene has to involve. :)

BTW, as of the end of this post, we're halfway through the entire epic. I trust that my teeny-weeny cliffhanger will keep you from forgetting completely about this story in the excitement of the first episode of the new season. (insert evil grin here)

Disclaimer and acknowledgments in the Prologue.

ooooooooooooooooooooo

Chapter 9: Where the Streets Have No Name

Monday, May 26, 2008  
6:47 P.M.  
Chicago, IL

The Brown Line train rattled off into the distance as Don jogged down the wooden stairs from the elevated tracks, blending with the late commuters heading home. He'd arrived in Chicago the previous day, having managed to hang on the freight car all the way from Pennsylvania to western Ohio before catching a ride with a trucker into the Chicago area. Two long city bus rides and one elevated train ride later, he was here. The address he'd been repeating to himself ever since leaving the Blue Dolphin Winery was a couple of blocks away, and he was nervous as hell.

He walked past the address once, scoping out the neighborhood. It was a tidy, well-kept place, with rows of three- and four-story brick buildings pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, narrow sidewalks leading between some of them to what he glimpsed as small backyards. There were leafy elms planted between the sidewalk and the street, kids out playing on the porches, and a late FedEx truck passing by. All in all, it looked like a nice place to grow up—not the kind of place he would have expected to produce a killer like Alex Brock.

Don paced around the block, watching carefully for signs of anyone looking for him. He had no idea how anyone would know where he was headed, but then again, he still had no idea how both Javier and his mystery assailant had known he was in Ocean City. He had come too far to fail because of some casual mistake like not being aware of his surroundings, so he ambled along the streets, buying a pack of gum at the corner store and pausing casually to see if anyone one the street had waited for him to come out. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, glad the unfamiliar scratch of the beard was gone. It obviously hadn't kept him from being recognized, and all things considered, he'd rather be without it. Everything looked clear, so after a few minutes more, he made his way back to Clybourn Street.

He knocked on the door, his heart thumping. The weight of the Glock against his ankle was reassuring, although he knew that the odds of the killer he was looking for being inside were slim to none. He took a deep breath to steady himself. If he came up empty here, he had nowhere left to turn, something that didn't really bear thinking about.

The screen door creaked open, and an elderly African-American woman peered out at him. "Yes?" she asked flatly.

He put on his most charming smile, although it felt artificial, having gone unused for so long. "Ma'am, I'm sorry to disturb you, but I'm looking for someone who used to live here many years ago." His pulse pounding faster, he asked, "Someone named Alex Young?"

"Yes, I knew Alex," she replied slowly. "Why you lookin' for him? Does he owe you money or something?"

"More like I owe him," Don said darkly, although he felt a spark of hope at her words.

She looked at him for a moment, sharp brown eyes evaluating him. Finally she said, "Well, he grew up here back when I lived upstairs, and his momma moved away oh, about five years ago now, back to her hometown in Indiana. We don't really keep in touch, but you might try with her. They were real close; he was her only child, and I never knew what happened to the father."

_Alex Brock has a mother_, Don thought. Well, of course he had a mother, but it was strange to think of asking a woman if her dead son was still alive, or if he was responsible for killing a woman and framing someone else for it. "Do you happen to remember the name of the town?" he asked as casually as he could.

"Well, I would say no, but after that pretty young woman stopped by the other day and asked, I went and looked it up."

Alarm bells were ringing in Don's head. "Someone else was here asking about him?"

The woman nodded. "Strange, that after so many years, two of you would come by so close together. You two don't know each other, do you?"

"I think we do," he muttered, fear suddenly prickling between his shoulder blades. "What was the name of that town?"

"Stafford, Indiana," the other woman said, pleased with herself. "Took me the longest time, but I finally remembered it."

"So you didn't tell her that. The woman who was here earlier."

"Well, no, I didn't remember it then, but she left a card and I did call her number." She sniffed. "Though I must say, you never know nowadays with all this voice mail and answering machines and whatnot if someone actually got your message." Her eyes narrowed as she looked him up and down from his windswept hair to his worn tennis shoes. "You aren't in the FBI like her, are you?"

He shook his head, backing away. "Not anymore. Thanks for the information, ma'am." And before she could say another word, he had turned and jogged down the steps, eyes flicking in both directions, watching for that dark brown head of hair and half expecting to hear her voice coming from behind him at any moment. How the hell did Javier find this place? It had taken him days of searching the most obscure online archives he could find, but he had had the starting point of Charlie's image search. What in the world was she using? Part of him was stunned to think that she might actually be considering his long-held belief that Alex Brock was actually alive, but for all he knew, she was simply following the trail she thought he himself would take in order to track him down.

He walked quickly down the quiet residential street, heading back for the El and the chance to lose himself in the crowds downtown, checking his surroundings constantly for any sign of his nemesis. Darting up the rickety wooden steps, he swiped his farecard through the turnstile and emerged onto the platform. Moving away from the entrance, he chose a spot to wait at the very head of the platform. He could see anyone approaching from here, and if he had to, there was an emergency exit leading onto the walkway beside the rails.

A train approached from the opposite direction, rattling over the old tracks and thumping to a halt at the platform. The train pulled away, and he froze. Standing opposite him, across two sets of tracks on the outbound platform, was a man his height with dark blond hair, wearing a jacket that was dark and not tweed, but still unmistakably the same person who had chased him through DC and Ocean City.

He was staring right at him.

Don looked to the stairs, but realized that by the time he got down to ground level, the other man would as well. He looked frantically towards the tracks and saw an inbound train approaching. The man on the other platform saw it, too, and suddenly sprang towards the exit stairs that would enable him to cross over the inbound platform. Don hesitated, not sure if he should run for the emergency walkway or wait for the train. But in a few seconds, the train had pulled up, and he slipped on board, watching anxiously as last-minute passengers raced up the stairs and climbed on. The doors were just closing as the blond man reached the top of the stairs, and Don sagged back against the wall in relief.

Then the doors slid back open, and at the far end of the train, he could see his pursuer slip inside just as they shut.

His heart sank. He was all the way at the front of the train, with nowhere to go. The sign on the door at the end of the car indicated that passing between cars was not allowed, but that didn't mean it was impossible. The train rounded a curve, and he grabbed the pole next to him, wondering grimly how much time he had before the blond was upon him. They turned in the other direction, and out the window he could see the far end of the train. Someone in a dark jacket was passing between the end car and the one next to it. There were ten cars in the train, and at this rate…he didn't need Charlie to tell him he was screwed.

"Next stop, Merchandise Mart," came the garbled announcement on the intercom. He positioned himself at the doors, ready to jump off as soon as they opened. The train clattered up to the platform, and to his relief, he saw an exit to the street at the front end of the train. Someone jostled him from behind, but he hardly noticed, focused on escape.

The doors slid open, and he ran.

The turnstile was an old-fashioned one, about six feet tall with horizontal bars, designed to control crowds and force them to move slowly. He nearly tripped over his own feet pushing through it, then raced down the stairs towards street level, hoping the few people behind him would hold up his pursuer. He paused for a second to catch his bearings, then headed underneath the El tracks, across the bridge over the Chicago River and towards downtown on the other side.

Don pumped his arms as he ran, knowing that he was going to have to travel a good distance to find any crowds to lose himself in. He was heading into the northern end of the financial district, which was dead as could be at seven-thirty in the evening. He cast a glance over his shoulder and saw the dark blond head of hair crossing the bridge a block or so behind him, no gun visible, but clearly in pursuit. He ran a block and turned abruptly at the corner of Washington Street, leaving the elevated tracks behind. This street was also nearly empty, not surprising since he was approaching City Hall and a collection of state and federal government buildings. He cut across a large plaza between two tall black buildings, then swerved as something caught his attention: an entrance to the subway. He plunged down the stairs as fast as he could, hoping to simply disappear from sight.

This subway station was much dirtier than the above-ground stations; years of black grime encrusted the top and sides of the tunnel, stark against the white walls. He threaded his way through the light crowd of people on the platform, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the entrance while trying to hide the way he was gasping for air. When the train pulled in after only a few seconds, he stepped on board and watched with bated breath. Sure enough, the blond man came tearing down the stairs, increasing his speed when he saw the train. But this time, when the doors slid shut in his face, they didn't open again, and Don allowed himself a sigh of relief.

To his astonishment, the man started running as the train began to move. Was he going to climb onto the side of it or something? They started to thunder past the end of the station, and Don was horrified to realize that the platform didn't actually end. The downtown stations on this line were only a few blocks apart, and there was no physical separation between them. As soon as they came to a stop, his pursuer would be there waiting for him.

He backed away from the door and moved towards the end of the car, tugging on the handle. It gave way, and he carefully stepped through over the swaying connection to the next car, ignoring the disapproving glares of passengers. He made his way quickly through the standees, feeling the motion of the train already slowing down. He made it through to one more car before they came to a stop, and he turned his head away to keep out of sight as best he could, pulling off his navy windbreaker and hoping that the white t-shirt underneath would make him look sufficiently different that he would pass unnoticed.

In the reflection of the glass, he saw the blond man striding past the car, looking inside but passing by. He didn't relax, keeping his eyes locked on the other man's reflection until the doors closed again with him still on the platform. Don turned sideways to watch as the train began to pick up speed.

Standing on the platform, on the other side of the glass, her eyes widening with recognition, stood Geraldina Javier.

He let out a sharp gasp and stepped back, bumping into someone standing behind him. In a second, she was gone, but then the train passed the man in the black jacket, who saw Don as well and started running again.

Fueled by desperation, Don started pushing his way through the passengers on the train car, opening the door to the next car and leaping across. He repeated the process, mumbling apologies as he went, until he realized with a shock that he was in the first car of the train. There was nowhere left to go.

The train slowed to a stop, and the doors opened. Five people got off, and three people got on. One of them had a dark jacket and light hair, and he approached Don with the lethal moves of a stalking cat that knows its prey is cornered, one hand reaching into his pocket as he came forward. The doors slid shut, and they started to move.

Don backed up against the doors on the opposite side of the car, trying to keep his distance from any bystanders on the train. He wouldn't have a chance to reach down to his ankle and remove the gun that was still tucked in there, but he might have a chance to take his pursuer's gun away from him. He eyed the man as he approached, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline that sharpened his senses, everything from the permanently musty smell of the subway to the squeal of the metal wheels as they entered a long turn.

The man stopped about a foot away, lifting a Sig Sauer out of his pocket just enough to show Don that it was there. Don tensed himself to spring, but the man leaned forward and said in a low tone, "There's about twenty other people on this car. How many of them do you want to see die with you?"

A tight knot of fear twisted in his stomach. Looking into the other man's cold blue eyes, he knew he meant the threat. If Don tried to grab for the gun, tried anything at all, he wouldn't be the first one to be shot.

He looked around, seeing the teenage couple standing directly behind the gunman, paying attention to nothing but each other. He saw the elderly woman seated next to the door, rocking back and forth with the motion of the train and humming loudly to herself. He saw a couple in their forties seated next to where the two of them were standing, he a salt-and-pepper-haired man with a full beard and mustache, she a Chinese woman with short-cropped, brightly-dyed auburn hair. Both of them were watching Don and the blond man with wide eyes, apparently having seen the flash of metal in the gunman's pocket. He caught her eye and saw the shock and fear reflected there, both even stronger than what he himself was feeling.

He turned back to the other man and growled, "None of them."

A short nod was his reply. The blond man drew back, his hand disappearing into his pocket, but the outline of a gun was clearly visible if you knew where to look. Don deliberately placed both of his hands around the pole next to him, making himself as non-threatening as he could, making it clear that he wasn't going to risk anyone else's life as long as they were on this subway car.

He looked out of the corner of his eye at the Chinese woman, who was fumbling with her purse. He saw her pull out a cell phone, and he turned his head slightly to catch her eye. She looked up and saw him, and he carefully gave a slight shake of his head, glancing down at the phone. Her eyes widened, but she tucked the phone away and grabbed the hand of the man next to her. Don gave her the most reassuring look he could and returned his attention to the man holding the gun, who had missed this little exchange.

"Clinton Street," came the announcement on the loudspeaker. The couple next to them jumped up and made their way to a door at the far end of the train. As they left, Don heard the man say in a strong Memphis accent, "And you want to _move_ to this city?"

They left the station, and the gunman shifted a little closer. "Four more stops," he said brusquely.

Don kept watching, but although people exited the car at every stop, there were always more getting on. He couldn't risk their lives, and he would have a better chance of maneuvering outside in an unrestricted space. So he kept his hands wrapped around the metal pole, surreptitiously sizing up the man next to him.

He was about the same height and build as Don and maybe five years younger. His eyes were in constant motion, flicking from his captive to the people around him to the view outside, which had shifted from a dark subway tunnel to the median of an expressway. Night had nearly fallen, and streams of headlights in both directions were piercing the twilight. He appeared to be right-handed, based on where the gun was, although Don couldn't count out his ability to switch hands. The hand resting on the pole above Don's was stubby-fingered and callused, with a diagonal slash of a scar across the back. From the way he kept his balance as the train swayed back and forth, Don figured that he was quick on his feet and would be hard to catch off guard.

As the train pulled into the station, he knew that however hard it was, that was his only chance.

"This is it," the blond man said, grabbing Don's upper arm and spinning him around as the doors opened. He marched him outside and up a long ramp to the street on the overpass over the freeway and railway. Once they were up on the street, Don saw weedy sidewalks, broken glass, and more than one non-functional streetlight. Not the best of neighborhoods, to be sure.

Then something hard poked him in the back, and he grimaced. Not the best of neighborhoods, indeed, if a man could walk around holding another man at gunpoint without fear of being spotted. He was prodded off the overpass to the right, across the street and down a block before they turned onto a side street. The houses here looked similar in form to the one he had visited on Clybourn Street, but the boarded-up windows and vacant lots told the story of a different part of Chicago. He saw one or two lights on, and even a curtain that twitched as they strode by, but there were no kids playing outside, no one sitting on the front stoop chatting with their neighbors. A car passed, its single headlight passing briefly over them before darkness fell again.

He slowed his steps, hoping to buy some time to think of a distraction, but the gun moved up to the back of his neck, the end of the barrel pressing against his bare skin. Strategically, it made more sense to keep your weapon trained on someone's back: there was more surface area to work with, and at such close range, lethal damage would be done no matter what internal organ was hit. But the intimidation factor of feeling cold steel against your neck, knowing there was a bullet only inches away from your brain, could be worth a lot to an assailant, canceling out the slightly higher odds of escape.

Don was certainly feeling pretty damn intimidated.

At the next intersection, the grip on his arm tightened and pulled him into an alleyway. They walked in silence past an overflowing dumpster, down towards what looked like a dead end. As they got closer, he realized it was a T intersection where the alley they were in crossed another one just as dirty and deserted.

The hand on his arm jerked him to a halt, then pushed him towards the brick wall, the weapon at his neck forestalling any protest he might make. "Hands up," came the gruff command, and he slowly obeyed. The man behind him patted him down, switching the hand that held the gun as necessary. To Don's dismay, he located the Glock still tucked next to his ankle and removed it. When he was done, he commanded, "Take off your belt and put your hands behind you."

Careful to keep his movements obvious, Don lowered his arms and did as instructed, knowing that his moment was coming. When he felt the woven leather belt being taken out of his hands, he waited, knowing the gunman had to have both hands free to tie him up. After a couple of heartbeats, he spun around, leading with his left elbow to drive it into the man's gut and grab his gun with the other hand.

He never got the chance. As he spun, his shoulder was grabbed, pulling him around even faster and right into the fist that was waiting for him. His head snapped back, and he momentarily saw stars. A second punch brought him to his knees, his right ankle twisting as he went down, and a vicious kick to his ribs landed him sprawling facedown on the pavement. He lay there, stunned, momentarily unable to resist as his hands were yanked behind him and fastened tightly together, the leather of the belt cutting into his skin. He lifted his head slightly but stopped as he felt a foot on his upper back. "Stay," the man above him growled.

_Not like I have much choice,_ he thought bitterly. The asphalt was pressing roughly against his cheek, and he turned his head slightly, but the pressure on his back increased. His head was clearing from the earlier blow, although he still saw too many colors when he blinked. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them, listening as carefully as he could to what was going on above him.

His captor had apparently pulled out a phone, because he was saying in a low voice, "I have him." There was a short silence; then he said, "Yes." Another silence, during which Don felt the tension in his gut increase. Finally, the man said, "All right," in a tone of finality that made his heart sink. There was the click of a phone being closed, and then the foot on his back moved to prod his side, spreading fire through his ribs. "Up."

He moved as slowly as he could, first gathering his legs under him and then lurching to his knees. The spinning sensation that resulted made him close his eyes for a moment, but a prod from the gun in his back urged him all the way to his feet. _Come on, Eppes_, he said to himself. _You're only going to get one chance with this guy. Hate to waste it on a dizzy spell_.

He was forced further down the alley, then down one of the side branches farther away from the main street. It was extraordinarily quiet for the heart of such a big city; off in the distance, he could hear a horn honking, followed by a siren, but the only sounds close by were the rustle of a newspaper lying on the ground and their own quiet footfalls. The man behind him was close enough to touch, but with a gun barrel digging into his back, there was nothing he could do. It was looking increasingly like he wasn't going to get a chance to do anything at all.

They took a few more steps, and the man said, "Stop." A hand pressed on his shoulder. "On your knees."

His breathing started coming faster, the fight-or-flight response kicking in with a vengeance now that it was too late to do either. He twisted his hands, feeling some give in the leather, but not enough to set him free in time. The hand on his shoulder pushed harder, and he was forced to kneel, facing the rough brick wall of a nameless alleyway that looked like it was going to be his tomb. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was completely dry.

Then he heard the unmistakable click of the Sig being cocked, and he knew it was over. _Liz, I'm sorry_, he thought as he closed his eyes.

oooooooooooooooo

A/N: Like I said: a teeny-weeny cliffhanger. ;) Don't forget to review...


	19. 9b: Where the Streets Have No Name

A/N: I know, I'm so evil. I'll try not to leave you hanging that badly for that long again; special circumstances and all. Gotta tell you, there were a couple of times during the season premiere that I was chuckling at how familiar some things sounded…

Disclaimer and acknowledgments are in the prologue.

oooooooooooooooo

Dina had been following her fugitive ever since he left the house at 1229 North Clybourn. She'd been staking out the place in a rented tan sedan, sure that if Eppes was headed for Chicago, he was headed here. His brother's refusal to tell her how he knew he was coming here was puzzling at first, but eventually she figured it out. If the two of them hadn't been in contact, and if Eppes hadn't been in touch with any of his old teammates, then the only way he could be acting on any intel Charlie had given him in Washington was to be using publicly available information. She'd scoured the Internet for Alex Young and Alex Brock in Chicago, and after two days of staring at the computer, she had an address. Two, actually, but one was now a parking lot and not likely to garner her any information. After speaking with the current resident at Clybourn, she was satisfied that this was where she was most likely to find Eppes, if not Brock.

Her patience was rewarded late that evening, when a familiar dark-haired figure showed up. He spoke only briefly with the woman behind the door before backing away, looking nervously over his shoulder. She had fought the urge to duck behind the steering wheel, knowing the sudden movement was more likely to get his attention than if she just sat still and tried to blend in with the car's interior. As he started down the street, she waited until he had turned the corner before following. Once she realized he was heading for the El, she was set to follow the tracks towards downtown and pick him up whenever he exited.

It had taken her a moment to realize that the man racing up the stairs was someone she'd seen before. When she recognized him from the brief glimpse she'd gotten through the pounding rain of a hurricane, she threw the car in park and started to climb out. But the approaching train was coming too quickly, and so she climbed back in and followed the elevated track while it turned and twisted from one block to the next. She reached the Merchandise Mart stop just in time to see two men tearing across the LaSalle Street bridge, and she stepped on the gas. Following two running figures through the nearly-deserted north side of the Loop was relatively easy, but when Eppes took a sudden turn and dived down into the subway, she cursed. She pulled the car over to the curb, slapped an FBI placard on the dashboard, and raced outside.

She barely had time to register the irony of running through the same plaza where Alex Brock had been in the photograph Dr. Eppes had shown her a week ago. She was too busy concentrating on the black jacket a hundred yards in front of her, sure now that it was the same man who'd been pursuing Eppes and would have shot her if not for the fugitive's warning. She raced down the subway steps a few seconds behind him, flashing her badge at the startled attendant as she scrambled over the turnstile and down the escalator towards the platform.

A train was just pulling out, and after seeing one of her quarries breaking into a run, she followed. She tailed him through the next station, noting that Eppes was indeed on the train, and finally catching up with the train at the third stop. She quietly got on, marking which car the blond man had entered. Starting a shootout in the middle of a subway car full of people was not her preferred mode of operation, and she knew the hired killer wouldn't be doing that if he could avoid it, either. So she poked her head out at each stop until she saw the two of them exiting the train and then followed at a discreet distance.

She could read the signs of the neighborhood as well as anyone and realized that normally this was not the place for a single woman to be walking around alone after dark. The Glock resting in its holster tilted the odds heavily in her favor, however. Still, as she followed Eppes and his captor from several blocks behind, she saw no one else on the street, which made her think about dropping back even farther to keep from being noticed. Then the men up ahead turned into an alley. _Just the right kind of place to leave a body_, she thought grimly, and quickened her pace.

She entered the alleyway and silently drew her weapon. Staying against the brick wall, she moved forward step by step after the two figures who were disappearing around the far corner. She stepped closer, straining her ears to hear what was happening. There was the scrape of shoes on the pavement, then a low-voiced command in an unfamiliar voice. "On your knees."

Heart in her throat, she hurried the few final steps and rounded the corner, weapon out in front of her. What she saw chilled her to the bone. Don Eppes was kneeling, facing the wall nearer to her, his hands bound behind him and his head bowed. Behind him stood a man with a gun a foot away from Eppes' head. In the next second, he cocked the gun and she saw Eppes close his eyes.

"Freeze!" she shouted, her words ringing off the alley walls, her aim straight on the man's center of mass. "Put down the gun and step away."

For a few seconds, there was no movement anywhere in the alley. She waited, arms held straight out, calculating precisely the amount of pressure that her finger would have to exert on the trigger if the gunman didn't obey her command in the next instant. "Put down your weapon," she repeated.

Because she was watching his arms, not his gun, she was prepared when he started turning in her direction. The weapon was only halfway towards her when she fired once, twice, both bullets striking the would-be killer in his torso. He went down without making a sound, his gun discharging harmlessly into the brick wall before falling with a clatter next to his body.

Dina eased forward cautiously, her own gun locked on him until she had carefully bent down to verify there was no pulse. She rose and kicked the Sig farther away out of habit, then turned to look down the alley in case the man had backup. She saw and heard nothing, which was surprising considering that three gunshots had just ripped through the air. Then again, considering the condition of the neighborhood she had just passed through, this might well be the kind of place where people kept their heads down and their mouths shut when they heard gunfire.

A rustling sound caught her attention, and she whirled to see Eppes turning into a half-crouch, pulling his arms apart behind him with a jerk as the tattered belt that had been binding his hands tore apart and fell to the ground. "Hey!" she shouted belatedly, raising her weapon. He was diving back towards the ground, bracing himself with his left arm as he hit the asphalt and reaching out with his right to pull the pistol—her pistol—from the other man's waistband and point it up at her.

They both froze, no sound in the alley but his harsh breathing. She knew she was silhouetted against the streetlight, an easy target if he decided to pull the trigger. She had the advantage of position, though, standing with both arms extended and pointing downwards. He was fighting gravity's pull against the Glock with only one arm, although the determination visible in his eyes would at least partially compensate for that.

His voice broke the silence, low and rough but undercut with surprised relief. "I never thought I'd actually be glad to see you."

She nodded towards her gun in his hands. "That's a strange way of showing it."

"Can you blame me?" he snapped back. His left cheek was streaked with blood, and she could see minuscule pieces of gravel clinging to his skin.

He started to shift upright, but she took a step closer. "Put it down, Eppes."

"Not a chance." His left hand was moving, fumbling for something at the dead man's waist.

"What are you doing?" she barked.

He fished out a cell phone and pushed himself upright, his aim at her never wavering. "He called someone to get confirmation, right before he…" He swallowed. "Right before you showed up."

"Then that's evidence," she insisted. "Hand it over."

Ignoring her, he pressed a few buttons on the phone. "Last number dialed is a five-oh-four area code." He frowned. "Isn't that New Orleans?"

Dina drew in a sharp breath and staggered back a step as it hit her. "Oh my God," she whispered, her thoughts whirling. The last time she'd felt her heart sink like this, she had also been at the wrong end of a gun held by Eppes, but she'd been convinced that he was going to kill her. That situation suddenly seemed as simple and straightforward as could be compared to what they'd stumbled into here.

"What is it?" His expression was wary.

She briefly closed her eyes, then stared at him. "I told two people I was coming here. One of them was your brother." She rushed on to forestall the question she saw poised on his lips, "The other one was Lee Boudreaux. Director of the Chicago field office, transferred up here from New Orleans a year after Katrina."

He looked down at the phone again, then back at her. "That's a long time to go without changing your cell number."

She took one hand off her gun to grab her own phone. "What's the number?"

He eyed her dubiously, but read it aloud. She dialed it, keeping her weapon trained on him as it rang. After four rings, she heard, "This is Lee Boudreaux. Ah'm sorry ah'm not available—"

She flipped the phone shut, sure that her face was as white as her blouse. Her mind started racing, tracing out all of the implications. Over the past week, she had figured that if Eppes really was being framed, there had to be more than a single individual at the L.A. field office behind it. Strings had been pulled and favors called in to get his trial to happen so quickly, and if it was true that the mounds of evidence she and her team had sifted through were fabricated, someone high-placed had gone to a lot of effort and expense to make that happen. It was one of the reasons why she had refused to believe his innocence: the conspiracy theory was just too far-fetched to believe. But that was before she had inadvertently smoked out the perpetrator of that conspiracy.

And before, she suddenly realized, her refusal to believe his innocence had taken on the past tense.

"Put that down," she said more gently, sliding her own firearm back into its holster. When he didn't move, she raised her hands and took a step back. His eyes narrowed, and she could see confusion in their depths. "Do you know who he is?" she asked, inclining her head towards the would-be assassin.

He shook his head. "He's the same guy from Washington and Ocean City, though." Placing the cell phone on the ground, he wrapped his left hand around the butt of the gun to support its weight with both arms.

She grimaced but kept still. She had to get him to trust her, and if making herself vulnerable was the only way to do it, then so be it. "This is the third time that he's found you a hair's-breadth before I have." He gave a short nod, and she went on, "The first time could be coincidence. The second time could be a lucky guess. This time…" She shook her head. "Someone told him where I was and where he could find you. Someone inside the FBI." She felt sick for a moment as she realized that by going to Boudreaux's office the other day, she might as well have directly contacted the man who'd been only seconds away from ending Eppes' life.

The gun lowered a bit, but it was still pointed in her direction. "Took damn long enough for you to figure that out," he growled.

She nodded heavily. "I know."

He looked at her more closely, the dim light from the streetlight behind her reflecting off his pale face and the lines furrowing his forehead. His arms were starting to tremble a little from holding the gun for so long, but his stubbornness was keeping it up. His eyes flickered to the gun holstered at her side, then the dead man between them, then back at her. "Just what the hell is going on here, Javier?" he finally asked.

Dina looked down at the ground, taking a deep breath. She had to make him understand how she had come around to her current way of thinking, or there was no way he would believe her. She might have been wrong about a lot of things about Don Eppes, but she knew his mind was as sharp as it was untrusting, and that the latter was all her doing.

"There's no reason for Boudreaux to send a killer after you when you've already been sentenced to death," she began quietly. "Unless he's worried that you or someone else might uncover information that throws your conviction into doubt. And there's no way that he," and she gestured at the dead man, "would have been able to find you without Boudreaux's assistance and someone who knew where Alex Brock used to live."

"And someone in Los Angeles," he cut in.

"And someone in L.A.," she acknowledged. That was a whole other can of worms that she wasn't at all eager to open. "Then there's the 89 percent probability that Alex Brock was here in Chicago five weeks ago."

His grip on the gun tightened, and she tensed, ready to throw herself to the ground. "You interrogating Charlie again?"

"We had a surprisingly civil conversation, given what he thinks of me." She paused. "Given who he is and what he's done for you, he's the one person with FBI access that I can be sure isn't in league with Boudreaux."

"Given up his security clearance, you mean," he spat back.

"No, it's been reinstated. You were right," she admitted reluctantly. "It was personal as much as anything else." Then, taking a deep breath, she slowly squatted down to look at him from eye level, throwing as much intensity as she could into her gaze. "Actually, you were right about a lot of things."

The gun was only a couple of feet from her head, but he slowly lowered it to point towards the ground. His breathing was coming a little faster, his eyes holding a hint of desperation that indicated he heard what she was saying, but couldn't quite believe it. From this angle, she could see the shadow of a bruise starting to form on his jaw. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked slowly.

Dina looked him straight in the eye. "I don't think you killed Liz Warner."

He went perfectly still, his dark brown eyes searching hers, while she tried to keep her expression as open and honest as she could. The depth of emotion in those eyes was stunning, from astonishment and anger to something like longing. Then, slowly, she saw something dawning on his face that she'd never seen there, right back to her first interview with him after Liz's death.

It was hope.

He dropped his head and put a hand over his eyes for a moment, then wiped it down his cheek, smearing the traces of blood and dirt. "I certainly never thought I'd hear you say that," he said quietly.

"You're not the only one," she murmured in reply.

After a long pause, he slowly stood up and asked, "So what now?" With a cynical twist to his lips, he went on, "I don't suppose you're going to just let me walk out of here."

She hadn't decided that yet, so she rose and answered, "Now, we call your brother and have him come up with one of his little algorithms to find out who Boudreaux has connections with at the L.A. field office."

He was shaking his head. "You are not getting Charlie involved in this."

She gave a bark of laughter. "I think it's a little late for that. He's the one who sent me here."

He glared, and for a moment she thought he was going to bring the gun up again. But what he said was, "There are three perfectly capable FBI agents in that office whom I trust more than my life. Ask them. Leave him out of it."

She thought for a moment. "What if I ask him to check out your three first, and if they're clean, turn it over to them?"

"No way. Charlie won't be able to step back once he's gotten involved."

"Well, soon it won't matter." She checked her watch. "He's probably already gone to them and told them where I am and what I'm doing." At the flash of fury in his eyes, she held out her hands. "That was his deal with me."

"I supposed you wanted to keep them out of it all together and just use him," Eppes muttered. She felt her cheeks flush, and he shook his head. "Javier, we're talking the goddamn head of the Chicago office. Do you know what kind of a reach someone like that has? If Charlie starts looking things up and finds a connection…"

"If your three are as trustworthy as you and he both say, they can protect him."

His expression was bleak. "This is a man who got me convicted for a murder I didn't fucking commit, who was just two seconds away from having a bullet put in my head. Do you think he can't get past even my team?"

"Do you think he wouldn't use Charlie if he had to, even if he wasn't working with your team?"

His face said, _That was a low blow_, but he paused, brow furrowed. "No, I don't suppose he would," he grudgingly said.

She pulled the cell phone out of her pocket. "I'll give him a call."

"No, I'll do it." He reached out a hand. "He's more likely to listen to me."

That was probably true, she admitted, and handed the phone over.

oooooooooooo

Don turned away and dialed, looking around nervously. He couldn't believe there hadn't been any cops by to check out the gunshots, but then, his would-be killer had probably known that characteristic of the neighborhood when he brought him here. He repressed a shudder, trying not to think about the gun at his head and the chilling certainty of a few minutes ago that he was going to die.

Now, if what Javier was saying was true, not only had she saved his life here in the alley, she was willing to save his life overall. He hadn't really expected his desperate attempt to get through to her during the hurricane to get him anywhere. It suddenly appeared as if it had made all the difference in the world.

"Hello?" came the familiar voice on the other end.

"Charlie, it's me," he said urgently. "Don't say anything. Can you talk?"

There was a pause. "Uh, yeah, let me close my office door." There were voices in the background, then the closing of a door, followed by faint footsteps and then the creak of a chair. "Is that really you?" came Charlie's hushed voice. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, turning his back on the dead man as if to put him out of mind as well as out of sight. "I need you to do something for me."

"Anything. You know that," came the instant reply.

He felt the corners of his mouth turn up. "Thanks. Just—be careful, okay?" Then he outlined the request: to eliminate any possibility of a connection between Boudreaux and his former team. "Once that's established, I want you to turn it over to them to investigate the rest."

"Once that's established, it's barely any extra work to search for connections to the rest of the L.A. office." Charlie's voice rose in pitch. "Then we'll know who was really behind this, won't we?"

"Charlie, this guy is the head of the Chicago office, and if he's masterminded this whole thing…" Don bit his lip. "If he finds out you're looking him up…"

"If it's so dangerous, then why are you even calling?" Charlie asked in a low tone. "And why don't you trust Megan and the guys?"

His eyes shot to Javier, who was watching him from about ten feet away. "I don't have much choice," he replied.

"Don…" Charlie's voice caught. "Why are you calling from an L.A. area code?"

He grimaced. Unlike their quarry, Javier had apparently changed her cell phone number as soon as she'd moved. "It's a long story, Chuck," he said. "I'll tell you about it later."

"Did she catch up with you?" Charlie demanded. "Did Javier catch you?"

"Would I be talking to you if that was the case?" he retorted. He didn't want either his brother or the FBI agent in front of him thinking he was coming back into custody. He had no intention of that happening, even if she did claim to be on his side.

"All right," Charlie said slowly, in the tone that indicated he wasn't going to press the issue, even if he thought something wasn't right. "It's just…I think she might be coming around. I think she might be trying to help."

"What makes you say that?" he asked, looking away down the alley, careful to keep his left side towards Javier so that she wouldn't be reminded that he was still holding her pistol in his right hand.

He heard Charlie take a deep breath and then spit out a string of words. "She came to me and said that she thought Alex Brock might still be alive, and she made it sound like you had told her about what I was working on trying to find him, and she said that I might be the only person she can trust because if you're telling the truth, who knows how many people at the FBI are in on it."

He looked back up at Javier, comparing what she had told him a few minutes ago with what his brother was saying and finding them surprisingly compatible. "It's okay, Charlie. When you're done checking out the team, call this number back, and then stay clear."

There was a pause. "All right. You…you take care."

He turned away, unwilling to share even this small personal moment with the woman who held his life in her hands. "You too, buddy. Tell Dad, okay?" Then he flipped the phone shut and closed his fingers around it, readying himself.

As expected, he heard Javier take a step towards him. "I wouldn't have phrased it quite that way, but I guess it's your neck if any of them are involved."

He looked up and saw her approaching, hand outstretched. Her right hand. _Perfect_. He reached out with the phone in his left hand, and as soon as their fingers made contact, he swiftly brought up the gun and aimed at the center of her chest. "I'm not going anywhere with you," he said with the most steel he could muster after the endurance run of the last two hours.

She pressed her lips together and took the phone, backing away with her hands up. "I wasn't expecting you to," she said dryly. "This is probably easier anyway, although A.D. Wright is going to wonder if he should keep issuing me firearms if you're going to keep taking them away."

He blinked, confused.

"Look," she said, nodding at the dead man next to them, "you and I both know that if this guy was able to find you out here even faster than I could, there's no way they won't be able to get to you in custody. On the other hand, I can't exactly let you go wandering around scot-free, so…" She jerked her chin towards the gun he held, her movements tense but unafraid. "You know where my handcuffs are. Just give me the other cell phone; I don't think either of us wants Boudreaux getting his hands on it."

Don stared at her for a moment. What kind of rabbit hole had he fallen into here? "You really don't think I killed her," he said in a bizarre echo of his earlier words on a California mountainside.

The corner of her mouth turned up as if she recognized the words. "Don't think I'm going to stop looking for you," she warned. "Once we have Boudreaux, I'm bringing you in."

"Forget it. I'm not going back in until I'm cleared," he said. There was no way he was spending any more time in a jail cell. Too many things could go wrong, even if they found all of the culprits and locked them away. "Turn around."

She made no reply as she turned her back on him, or as he fished her handcuffs out of their holder. He prodded her towards the side of the alleyway and fastened one cuff around her right wrist, wove the chain through a fire escape railing, and closed the other cuff around her left wrist, aware of her eyes on him from no more than a foot away. After a moment of deliberation, he left her gun where it was and tucked Boudreaux's cell phone into her front pocket. Her own cell was still resting in her loosely-clenched hand, as if she were trying to shield it from his view. He deliberately looked at it, then at her. "It's a rough neighborhood," was all he said as he backed away, keeping the Glock pointed at her. He wasn't about to leave her unable to call for help, but he couldn't let her call while he was still standing there, either.

Once he was nearly to the sidewalk, he lowered the gun and bent down to tuck it into his sock, pulling his jean leg over it. Then he turned his back on her and started jogging away, trying to ignore the protests of his sore ankle and ribs.

"Hey, Eppes," she called after him.

He looked back over his shoulder, pausing mid-step. The streetlight only illuminated half of her face, but he could see a slight smirk at the corners of her mouth. "See you in Stafford," she said.

He grimaced. Alex Brock's mother was where he was headed next, but he had been hoping Javier hadn't gotten the message. Now, even without the assassin to worry about, he was still going to have to watch his back as closely as ever.

Then, just so she wouldn't get the last word, he held up something small and shiny in his fingers. He waited until the recognition dawned on her face and allowed himself a small smirk to match hers.

Then he tucked her handcuff key back into his pocket and ran on.

ooooooooooooooooo

A/N: Run, Don, run!


	20. 10a: Take Me Home, Country Roads

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to MizEm for her inspiration and hospitality this summer. This fic wouldn't have happened without both of those things, so thanks, Em!

Disclaimer and the usual acknowledgments are in the Prologue.

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Chapter 10: Take Me Home, Country Roads

Monday, June 2, 2008  
4:35 P.M.  
Lorden Hall, CalSci

Dina opened the door to the mathematics building and straightened her shoulders as she stepped inside. She'd only been to CalSci once before, soon after her arrival in L.A., to question Dr. Eppes about his brother. She remembered the way to his office easily enough, but she still took her time, telling herself it was to make sure everyone else was already there, deep down knowing that it was really to steel her nerves. Somehow, she was more nervous heading for this meeting than she had been facing down a paid killer in a Chicago alleyway.

Not long after reporting the shooting and extricating herself from the Chicago office without running into its Director, thankful that Eppes had run off with her old Glock and not the killer's Sig, she'd gotten a call from Dr. Eppes. He had seemed slightly startled to hear her voice at the end of the line where he had heard from his brother, but to her surprise, he asked no questions about his whereabouts. He did verify that he could find absolutely no connection between Lee Boudreaux and any of her fugitive's former team members.

Knowing what she had to do, she had asked him to call together Eppes' old team at a site away from the FBI so that she could talk to them all at once in a completely unofficial capacity. He had suggested his office, and she had agreed. She needed backup to pursue the abrupt turn this investigation had taken, and the fact that the list of people she could trust had widened from one to four still left her with a narrow range of options. It also left her with the necessity of eating a lot of crow, but she could take that. She'd been wrong before—if never on such a monumentally large scale.

Her heels rapped on the institutional tile floor as she swept past a cluster of undergraduates grouped around a water fountain. To the left, past a row of faculty mailboxes, down the hall, then—this was it.

The door was ajar, but she knocked anyway. "Come in," came the voice from inside. She took one last steadying breath. Then she entered.

Dr. Eppes was seated behind his desk, which was overflowing with stacks of files and papers. Granger and Sinclair were standing near the windows, examining some kind of weird sculpture thing that looked like it was built out of Tinkertoys. Reeves was sitting in the chair in front of the desk with her physicist boyfriend in the other chair. Both were poring over a star chart but looked up as she entered.

They all looked up as she entered.

There was a pause. Then Dr. Eppes said quietly, "Why don't you shut the door behind you."

She did, then moved a few steps into the room. She couldn't read the expressions on the faces of the two near the window, silhouetted against the light as they were. She could, however, see the usual blank politeness on Reeves' face, and the guarded features of the two professors. Her eyes flickered to the physicist seated next to Reeves, but the agent laid her hand on the man's arm as if to say, _He stays here_.

Standing as straight as she could, she began, "Thank you for meeting me here. I know these must seem like strange circumstances, but you'll understand in a few minutes." She clasped her hands behind her, determined to not show her nerves by fidgeting, as she looked at the three agents and Dr. Eppes in turn before diving right in. "I've asked you here because I owe all of you an apology. I owe someone who is not here a great deal more than that."

She noted without surprise the stunned looks that crossed their faces and then went on, "Someone has gone to a tremendous amount of effort to frame an innocent man, and they've done a very thorough job. I know this is not news to any of you. I know you've been trying to make me see it for the past ten months." She took another deep breath. "All I can do is apologize for interpreting your loyalty as blindness rather than as trust. And to ask for your help from here on out."

"What happened?" Dr. Eppes asked instantly in a tight voice, his brown eyes boring into hers and looking so much like his brother's that she blinked in surprise.

"We know you were in Chicago, but that's all we know," Reeves added. Her narrow eyes and tight mouth said something more: _tell us right now what happened to Don that explains this about-face of yours._

Dina hesitated as the image flashed through her mind of Don Eppes kneeling in an alleyway with his hands bound and a gun at the back of his head. That was not something his brother needed to hear about in detail. "Your brother's fine," she said with a glance at the mathematician. "If barely."

"What does that mean?" Sinclair asked sharply from his post at the window, arms folded in front of him.

She took a step forward, bringing her arms up across her chest as well. "It means there _was_ someone out there trying to kill him." She added quickly over a gasp from the mathematician, "And although I've asked that it be kept on a need-to-know basis, I'm currently on administrative leave pending a review of the shots I fired."

She watched all three agents processing her formally-phrased words, and it was Granger who spoke first. "Wait. You're telling us you saved Don's life by shooting someone who was after him?"

She inclined her head. "Yes, I did. Apparently the same man had twice earlier fired shots at him. We don't know for sure how he found him, but given the leaks within the FBI, it was probably the same action in Washington that caught my attention." She pinned Dr. Eppes with her gaze, her meaning clear.

His face went ash-white. "I—I'm the one who insisted he stay the night. I just wanted to help him, give him something—"

"Charlie," Granger said in a warning tone. The professor looked at him, and his expression changed as he suddenly realized he was confessing in the presence of four FBI agents to aiding and abetting an escaped felon. His eyes grew almost comically wide as he sat back in his chair and stared at Dina.

She waved a hand dismissively, startled at how easy it was to let it go. "That's not important. Or at least, it's only important to the extent that we find out how he was able to track Eppes down, since he seems to have been a step ahead of me all along the way."

"Do you know who this man was?" Sinclair's baritone voice rumbled.

"He's been identified as Wayne Michalek, a man who's been suspected for a number of years by the Chicago P.D. of being a killer for hire."

"Why would a hit man from Chicago be after Don?" Sinclair asked.

She looked him in the eye. "Because the Director of the Chicago FBI office is the man who wants him dead."

This time, the gasps came from more than one person. She went on to explain the killer's phone call to Lee Boudreaux and the proof it represented. "You're all here because Dr. Eppes has verified to my satisfaction that you're not the connection between the L.A. office and Boudreaux."

"Gee, thanks, Charlie," Granger drawled.

The mathematician ignored him, his attention focused on her. "But Don was the one who asked me to do that verification. So where is he now?"

"Probably on his way to talk to Alex Brock's mother in Indiana and see if she knows where her son is," she replied, mentally crossing her fingers that none of them would ask exactly how her fugitive had managed to get away from her yet again.

"I think there's a few things you need to explain to us," Reeves said sharply, sitting bolt upright. "Starting with what made you change your mind about Don."

"Fair enough." She really wanted to find a chair, but the power dynamic in the room was still not on her side, and she needed to remain standing. "Basically, it was a mistake on Boudreaux's part. It's one thing for him and whoever is working with him to frame Eppes and watch him run and send me out there to catch him. If they'd stuck to that, they might have gotten away with it." Her voice grew harder. "And I would have gone on believing that I was doing the right thing, all the while doing exactly what they wanted."

"But by sending someone after him…" Sinclair started.

"That implies that there's something they need to keep quiet. That, combined with other information." She looked pointedly at Dr. Eppes.

He returned her stare coolly. "I've already told them that Alex Brock is alive, as per our agreement."

She stared. "And you've all been waiting around this entire time?"

"Charlie told us you'd been experiencing a bit of a paradigm shift," Granger said laconically. She saw Sinclair raise his eyebrows at the choice of words, but he didn't comment. "Although apparently there're some things he hasn't been telling us," he said in a slightly harder tone.

Dr. Eppes held his hands up. "I couldn't," he said, swallowing.

"I asked him not to," she broke in, noticing the surprise on his face. _That's right, his brother was the one to ask him that_. "Until it was clear to me that you all could be trusted."

"You know how ridiculous that sounds, don't you?" Reeves snapped. "That _we're_ the ones not to be trusted here?"

"My God, cut me some slack!" Dina realized the volume of her voice was rising, and she lowered it. "I've had less than a week to get used to the idea that you've been carrying around for the past ten months."

"When have you cut any of us some slack?" Reeves shot back. "When have you cut Don any slack over the past ten months?"

She put her hands on her hips. "When I let him walk away in Chicago." Okay, so that was an exaggeration, but she had known he wasn't going to come quietly, and she hadn't done anything to stop him. And she needed the points it would earn her with this crowd.

There was dead silence. Then Granger let out a low whistle. "That's putting it all on the line, Javier."

"I suppose it is, yes." The challenge in her tone was clear. _What are you going to do about it?_

The room fell quiet again. Then Dr. Fleinhardt spoke up. "If I might make a suggestion?" he asked somewhat timidly.

She gave a nod, letting her hands fall to her sides.

"It appears to me that we have a strong confluence of interests among everyone in this room, even if our attitudes are not so harmoniously aligned. Might I suggest that we focus on what we have in common, namely obtaining evidence against this Boudreaux person, rather than continuing to be a house divided?"

Dina blinked. "I can agree with that sentiment," she replied, earning herself a grave nod from the physicist.

Reeves shifted in her chair, and Dr. Fleinhardt reached over to put a hand on her arm. It was then that she noticed the small diamond sparkling on the FBI agent's left hand, and she fought back a smile. _Opposites attract, indeed_.

"Does Don know he can trust you?" Granger was asking.

She thought back to the way Eppes had left her, responding to her taunt about following him to Indiana by mocking her with the key to her handcuffs. "No, I don't think he does," she said. "But then," she added as she looked around the room, "I think he's got company in that respect."

Reeves was regarding her shrewdly. "What do you want from us?"

"I need to find out who in the L.A. field office has been leaking information about my case." She looked at Dr. Eppes. "Your brother said you shouldn't be involved because it's too dangerous, but he also thought that wouldn't stop you."

"He's right about the latter one," he replied with a hint of steel in his voice.

"Then I need you to do what you did for these three agents for the entire office. Find out who's connected to Lee Boudreaux." He nodded, and she reached into her pocket and pulled out a cell phone in a plastic bag. "Then I need to find out everyone who has ever called or been called from this cell phone."

"I have some small amount of expertise in that arena," Dr. Fleinhardt said, "and this way you can be assured that no miscreant in the FBI office will purloin what is surely a valuable piece of evidence."

She narrowed her eyes. For all his excessive verbiage, this man could certainly cut to the heart of the matter. "All right," she said, tossing him the bag. She looked at Reeves. "Then we'll cross-reference their results and ferret out the culprit."

"Just like that?" Sinclair asked, eyebrows raised.

"No, because we can't use any FBI resources or official time," Reeves responded. "Right?" she asked Dina.

She nodded. "Until we know everyone who's involved, we have no way of knowing who might be working with Boudreaux, and no way of knowing who might be watching at the office or through the computer network."

"You're awful quick to use this 'we' word," Granger interjected. "What makes you think all of us are interested in working with you?"

"I _don't_ think you're interested in working with me," she replied easily. "I think you're interested in working for Don Eppes."

He grudgingly nodded in acknowledgment. Then his eyes took on a gleam that she didn't like. "I still haven't heard you say who's going after Alex Brock. If you're on administrative leave, you're not allowed to work the case away from your desk, are you?"

"You know, I hear Indiana is beautiful this time of year," Sinclair said, nudging his partner in the ribs.

"I hear Indiana's a dump any time of the year," came the reply. "I'm still going."

Dina shook her head. "You're not assigned to this case, and there's no way you can be."

Reeves was eyeing the two agents by the window. "We have had a heavy case load lately," she said thoughtfully. "A little vacation time might be a good idea."

They both gave predatory grins, and Dina wondered, _What am I getting myself into?_

oooooooooooooooooooo

Wednesday, June 4, 2008  
6:45 A.M.  
Stafford, IN

Don's shift was only a third over, and he was already exhausted. He'd arrived in the little town of Stafford about a week ago, hot on the trail of Alex Brock/Young's mother. But his pursuit came screeching to a halt when everyone named Young in the phone book was too young or old to be the woman he sought. The town had less than a thousand people, but that was still too many to simply go wandering around looking for someone. And his experience with chasing down fugitives told him that people in small towns like this one were not going to open up and start talking when a strange man showed up in their midst and asked questions; even less so, now that he didn't have a badge. So he'd taken a job as a busboy at the local 24-hour pancake house in order to make ends meet while he listened to regular customers talk and tried to learn his way around town.

He cleared another table and headed for the kitchen, trying not to limp as he went. In the alleyway in Chicago, he'd twisted his right ankle when his would-be killer had knocked him to the ground, and since he'd spent a couple of days walking on his journey down to central Indiana, it had only gotten worse. Standing on it eight hours a day wasn't helping, but there wasn't much he could do about that. To compensate, he'd switched the gun that he always carried to his other ankle, which made him feel even more unbalanced.

Every time he walked out into the restaurant, he scanned the faces of the patrons, hoping he wouldn't see Javier. It was unlikely that she could be here so quickly; administrative leave after a shooting lasted at least a week, usually longer, and that wasn't counting the travel time to and from L.A. But since this was one of only three restaurants in town, the odds were that she would show up here at some point, since she'd as good as promised him that she would be coming. His nerves grew tighter every day, waiting to hear some scrap of information that would point him in the right direction before she found him again.

He still had a hard time believing that she had come around to his side. _She and Charlie must have had one hell of a conversation_, he thought. He kept replaying her words in the alleyway, knowing that was all he had to hold on to at the moment. Just because the woman who had led the investigation into his alleged crimes had changed her mind didn't meant the justice system had. He still had to find Liz's real killer and whoever else was part of the conspiracy. Javier might have uncovered Lee Boudreaux, but there had to be others involved. Anyone who could afford the services of a hired killer who had apparently been resurrected from the dead was someone with a lot of money and motivation. And the fact that a different hired killer had tracked him down outside of Alex Brock's old house meant that Boudreaux knew something about Brock, too.

Two older men were exiting the booth he was passing, and he paused to let them go by. Putting down his tub of dirty dishes, he loaded their plates and glasses into it and reached for the Indianapolis Star they had discarded. He wasn't able to read a newspaper very often, and while he wasn't likely to find anything personally relevant, it was still good to see what was going on in the world. He unfolded the front section and then stared at it in shock.

"Chicago FBI chief found dead," the headline blared.

He wasn't sure how long he stared at the paper, feeling the blood drain from his face, but a jostle from one of the waitresses passing by called him back to the present. Folding up the paper and stuffing it under his arm, he grabbed the tub and strode to the kitchen, depositing it on the counter next to the sink and ducking out the back door to the picnic table where employees took their smoke breaks.

The story took up half of the front page and most of page fifteen as well, although much of it was recounting Lee Boudreaux's career and life history. The only important parts to him were "single gunshot to the head," "FBI parking garage," and "unknown assailant." He read the article three times, feeling his despair grow with each reading. He had been so close, damn it, so close! Actual, verifiable evidence that someone in the FBI was after him, and now that person had been eliminated as well—presumably by or at the orders of someone even higher up the food chain. He clenched a fist, the newspaper crinkling in his fingers. Even if he found Alex Brock here, it was going to be a hell of a lot more difficult to tie him to anyone at the FBI.

"Hey, Ted. You workin' or what?"

He turned his head to see Pam, the restaurant manager, regarding him balefully from the back door. "Yeah," he said, dragging himself to his feet and crumpling up the newspaper in his hands. "Sorry."

She looked at him closely as he approached. "You all right?" she asked. "You're white as a sheet."

He nodded and pushed past her. "I'm fine," he said, picking up the dish tub from the counter and heading back out into the restaurant. Maybe the mindless routine of clearing tables would work to clear his head.

But as he pushed through the swinging doors, the second big shock of the morning was sitting at the counter. Second and third, technically speaking. He'd know that close-cropped sandy hair and the shaved dark head next to it anywhere. But he would never have expected to see them here.

He abruptly turned around and went back through the swinging doors, flattening himself against the wall and looking through the circular glass window in the door. His eyes had not deceived him: Colby Granger and David Sinclair were sitting at the counter, sipping coffee.

He leaned his head back against the wall and suppressed a groan. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pam approaching, and he turned to her with a weak smile. "Actually, I'm not feeling that well," he said apologetically. "Would it be all right if I took off the rest of my shift?"

She looked at him dubiously, blowing her blond bangs out of her eyes. "It's only seven o'clock. Morning rush has barely started."

He let himself sag against the wall, hoping his face was pale enough to reflect the panic he was feeling. "I know, and I'm sorry. It's just that my ankle's been bothering me, and I don't want to have it give out on me and break a whole tub full of dishes."

Her expression was skeptical, but she said, "All right. Wednesdays are kind of slow around here anyway. Make sure you clock out, and make sure you're here tomorrow bright and early."

He thanked her and slipped out the back, giving the parking lot a wide berth as he headed for the roadside motel down the street where he was currently registered. A thought occurred to him, and he stopped at the main office. After a moment's persuasion, he got the clerk to tell him that neither FBI agent was registered at the motel. He knew they might have arrived in town only that morning, but this was the cheapest and most well-worn of the three motels in Stafford. Odds were the Bureau would foot the bill for a place with cable TV, unlike his current home.

He let himself into his room and sat on the lumpy bed, staring unseeingly at the cracked paneling on the walls while his mind raced. Obviously, Javier had gotten his former teammates involved, though he could hardly believe that they had been allowed to work on the case. It was true that they hadn't been wearing standard FBI attire, but then again, suits would have made them stand out in this small town. He grimaced. It was one thing to consider how to get past the woman he'd been evading for the last five months; he couldn't see himself pulling a gun on David or Colby.

_Maybe that's why she sent them here_, he thought grimly. He had said he wasn't going back in with her, but two-to-one odds, especially with the two in question, were definitely not in his favor. He looked out the window at the blue-roofed pancake house down the street. Now what was he supposed to do?

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	21. 10b: Take Me Home, Country Roads

A/N: Hee, I guess Indiana's okay to make fun of. And a cookie to Izhilzha for noticing the ring! No cookies to anyone for noting the significance of where Don's working or the town where he's at. Guess I'm being too obscure. :(

This is the point where I remind you that I had this chapter written before the season opener. Just ask ritt and Susan W…

Disclaimer and acknowledgments have not left the prologue.

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Thursday, June 5, 2008  
6:45 P.M.  
Bixel Street, Los Angeles

Tom Metzke put the car in park and turned it off. He reached for the phone on the seat next to him and then withdrew his hand. He'd been warring with himself for the last thirty-six hours, ever since arriving at work yesterday to find the horrifying news that his literal partner in crime had been murdered. Of course, there was a long list of people who wanted the head of one of the FBI's largest offices dead, but he had the sinking feeling that it had to do directly with the mess the two of them had gotten themselves into, and the disaster that Don Eppes had made of it.

It had started so simply: a case he and Lee Boudreaux worked together way back in Memphis, where the well-connected perpetrator had suggested they look the other way in exchange for a small token of appreciation. He'd been in his early years at the Bureau, still idealistic enough to be horrified at the idea of taking a bribe, but feeling underpaid and underappreciated enough to rationalize it to himself. There hadn't been anything more for years, until he transferred to L.A. and found himself over his head in debt and not up the career ladder as far as he would have liked. An informant made a suggestion about how to make a piece of evidence disappear, and after a consultation with his old colleague Boudreaux, he had reasoned it away. There were a few more incidents here and there, but it was the drug dealer from East L.A. who had pushed things over the edge. The case got too much publicity, and Boudreaux suggested that it was time to find a fall guy. Just in time, too, because the central office was about to send out an agent tasked with investigating that incident and a few related ones, most of which Metzke had his hands in. When his initial attempts at making Special Agent Liz Warner's acquaintance had been firmly rebuffed, they had turned to Plan B.

Or rather, Plan B had presented itself to them in the form of a man Boudreaux liked to refer to as their "backer," who had come to them with a fall guy in mind. He provided the funds and the motivation, they carried out the work within the FBI. Everything had gone just as planned, up until that damn bus crash and Eppes continually staying one step ahead of him and Javier. Now, everything was going to hell.

He reached for the phone again and opened it, still hesitating. The man Boudreaux had hired to kill Eppes wouldn't have turned on him, would he? He couldn't think of any reason for him to, and he had to know what was going on. Before he could change his mind again, he dialed the number and listened.

It rang endlessly; there was no voicemail that picked up. He hung up and tried again, in case he had misdialed, but the answer, or lack thereof, was the same. He flipped the phone shut and stared out the windshield at the empty street in front of him. Now what?

After a moment's indecision, he reached into his wallet for a second number he had written down. Boudreaux had told him this was to be used only in an emergency, but he didn't know what else would qualify as one. Getting straight in his mind what he was going to say, he dialed and held the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

No identification of any sort. He'd never met the man, so he didn't know what his voice sounded like. He took a deep breath and said, "This is Tom Metzke."

"Ah." There was a thump in the background, and then the man said, "I was expecting to hear from you at some point."

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but—I didn't know who else to call."

"You do seem to be in a bit of a situation there, don't you?" The man's voice was almost friendly.

"I can't reach the man you had Boudreaux hire to find Eppes, and—"

"Whoa, wait a minute there. I didn't have anybody hire anyone. Be careful how you go throwing around accusations, son."

Metzke frowned, puzzled. Then understanding sank in. "I'm not calling from the Bureau," he said. "This is a private line."

"Cell phone lines are never secure," came the brusque response.

"Then can I meet you somewhere?"

"That's even less secure."

A hint of impatience crept into his voice. "I know how to shake a tail, if there is one." Which there wasn't, as his periodic scan of the rearview mirror told him.

"What about your supervisor?"

He sighed. "She's been taking personal time to consolidate her move here from Washington. She hasn't been around much."

"Are you sure?"

He said up straighter. "What does that mean?" he asked slowly.

Now it was the man on the other end of the phone who sounded impatient. "Why do you think you couldn't get in touch with your contact? Javier shot and killed him in Chicago, then claimed self-defense."

"What?" he exploded. "How come I haven't heard about that?"

There was a huff of breath at the other end. "Apparently Boudreaux managed one last cover-up. Maybe I underestimated him."

Tom froze. "You had him killed," he said in horrified understanding.

There was a low chuckle on the other end. "There you go again with those groundless accusations. Agent Metzke, you can't verify that. No one at the Bureau can verify that, not with their limited resources and competing priorities."

He swallowed, suddenly realizing that this phone call had been a worse idea than he could have imagined. Even the insurance he had stashed away in a downtown bank wouldn't be enough to save him from this man if he put his mind to it. "What about me?" he asked, trying to keep his voice strong.

"Yes, what about you?" The man sounded as though he had been presented with an interesting puzzle. "That's a very good question. Do you still want to meet?"

_Hell no_, Tom thought, but couldn't say it aloud. "Is there…anything I could assist you with?"

"At this point, saving yourself ought to be your only priority," came the smooth response. "But I can assist you with vacating your current position if you can do something in return."

That sounded all too familiar. He'd been doing "something in return" for years now, and look where it had gotten him. Not that he had a choice at this point. He swallowed back the fear that was threatening to choke him and said, "What would that be?"

"Cell phone lines are never secure," the man repeated. "Or free of interference. So I can't be held responsible if you misunderstand my meaning. But I'm sure you can figure out who else should be vacating her current position in order to make both of our lives easier."

He licked his lips nervously. "I—I understand, sir."

"Then don't contact me again unless you have news to report." The line abruptly went dead, and Tom stared at the phone as though it had bitten him.

Their backer was right. It was only a matter of time now before the FBI connected him to Boudreaux and this whole thing fell apart in his hands. But if he could stop the person who was leading the charge, he had one shot left to make it out of this in one piece and to keep Eppes as the culprit.

_Damn it!_ He slammed the steering wheel, startling a homeless woman shuffling by with a shopping cart. He'd put so much effort into making sure Javier stayed on track. He'd altered paperwork, rewritten computer files, done everything short of planting physical evidence to make sure that Don Eppes was fingered as the guilty party. It had all worked like a charm.

And now, unless Dina Javier was out of the way, it was all going to fall apart.

He turned the car on and pulled away, looking at the FBI building in his rearview mirror and realizing he could never go back. He was going to have to get to her some other way. And then his backer would get him a ticket to Mexico or some other faraway destination, and he'd be safe. He kept telling himself that over and over as he pulled onto the freeway and out of downtown, trying to convince himself that killing a fellow agent was his only route to safety.

oooooooooooooooooooo

Friday, June 6, 2008  
10:13 A.M.  
Stafford, IN

Don trudged along the mown side of the road, keeping off the dusty gravel. He squinted into the sun and saw a driveway ahead on the right. A green-and-yellow mailbox shaped like a tractor was perched on a white post, and although there was no name on top of it, he was sure this was the right place.

A visit to the county clerk's office under the pretext of looking up legal information for a property he wanted to purchase had garnered him an address for a Miss Alexandra Young. The name could be a coincidence, but the property had been in her name for nearly sixty years, just about the age that that would fit Alex Brock's mother. A warm smile and a friendly chat with the young secretary had verified that Alexandra had returned to her hometown a couple of years ago after decades of living in the big city. With a shy smile, she had given him detailed directions to the address three miles out of town, surrounded by corn and soybean fields.

He crossed a railroad track and plodded on down the driveway. The morning sun was hot, the Midwestern humidity making the air almost tangible. He listened carefully as he made his way up the drive, but he heard nothing. There was no car in the driveway, no sign of life other than the laundry hanging in the side yard next to the old farmhouse with its peeling white paint and black shutters hanging askew. He paused to reach down and remove the gun from where it was tucked in his sock, holding the weapon behind him with one hand as he knocked at the front door.

There was no answer. Peering through the front window, he saw a small parlor with shabby furniture and two empty beer bottles on the coffee table. He rapped on the glass, but again got no answer. Holding the gun down by his side, he peered around the corner of the house.

There was a decrepit barn behind the house, and he thought he heard a noise coming from inside. He opened his mouth to call out, then changed his mind. In his current situation, better that he startle an older woman than be caught unawares by a hired killer. And not just any hired killer, but the man he'd been seeking for nearly a year—the man who had killed Liz. He flexed his fingers around the handle of the gun and crept forward, nerves tightening in anticipation.

The noise came again, a clanging sound that fit an old farm like this. He moved from tree to tree, keeping out of sight of the barn door. He wasn't worried about the house; if anyone was in there, they would have come to the front when he knocked. There was only one oak left, and then he had his back to the weathered boards of the open barn door. He took a deep breath and cautiously eased his head around the corner.

What he saw made his blood turn to ice and his pulse start pounding in his ears. Bent over a rusty riding mower, wielding nothing more threatening than a wrench, was the man who'd stolen his life away from him. It took only a second to compare his features to the image he had burned into his mind standing at his apartment window, watching helplessly as he drove away while Liz's life drained out of her. _Here's your phantom, Javier_, he couldn't help thinking.

He whirled around and brought up the gun in one smooth motion. "Alex Brock," he barked in his best FBI voice. "Put that down and get on your knees, hands on your head."

Brock looked up, his face reflecting shock for only a second before being replaced with something like a sneer. "Eppes," he said, slowly rising to his feet. "Thanks for making it easy for me to find you."

Don took two quick steps into the barn, moving to the side so he wouldn't be silhouetted against the entrance. The back doors were open as well, and a light breeze was blowing through the building, stirring up motes of dust that drifted through the beam of sunlight shining through the door he had just entered. "Drop the wrench and kneel," he snapped, clenching his jaw.

Brock lazily tossed the wrench off to the side, where it fell with a thunk on the packed dirt floor. "You gonna arrest me?" he asked. "You're not a FBI agent anymore, you know."

Don felt his finger tightening on the trigger, and he forced himself to relax a fraction. He needed this man alive and in custody more than he had ever needed anything in his life, and he couldn't afford to make a foolish mistake. That included letting the other man goad him. "Turn around and kneel down," he repeated.

The taller man stood there, apparently regarding him completely calmly, although Don could read the tense lines of his shoulders and legs. He reminded himself that this was a dangerous individual, one apparently so skilled at his illicit profession that someone had gone to the trouble of making it appear he had died in prison. On the other hand, there was no reason he couldn't come up with a goading comment or two of his own. "So, how much does it bug you to be stuck out here in a one-horse town, hiding behind your mother like this?"

His response was a sneer and a half-step forward. Don raised the gun higher in warning, taking another sideways step. He still hadn't gotten a good look at the killer's back, and he had no way of knowing if he had a weapon hidden somewhere on his person.

Brock was opening his mouth to reply when they both heard a sound. It was the crunching of tires on gravel; someone was coming up the driveway. From the wary look on the other man's face, Don guessed that it wasn't an expected visitor. He advanced on him and grabbed the front of his t-shirt, holding the Glock a scant six inches from his face. "Not a word," he warned.

Brock's narrow eyes were cold, but he stood perfectly still. Don stared at him, part of him wishing the killer would make some sort of move so that he could be justified in pulling the trigger. He reminded himself again that a dead Alex Brock wasn't what he needed, but the desire to end this all was stronger than he would have liked.

And then he heard a familiar voice from the other side of the house.

"Mrs. Young?" He heard a distant knock. "My name is Colby Granger; I'm with the FBI. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

Don's eyes locked on the killer's, and he couldn't help but notice the smirk on the other man's face. "What're you gonna do, Eppes?" he taunted softly. "Turn us both in and get yourself back on Death Row when the appeal fails?"

He jabbed the gun into the underside of Brock's jaw, shoving him backwards. "What's that supposed to mean?" he hissed.

No trace of fear showed in Brock's narrowed blue eyes despite his precarious position. "You think everything's gonna be all right just because it's your friends who take you in? He did it to you once, he can do it to you again."

"Who?" he snapped in a low voice. "Boudreaux? He's dead."

"I know." Brock's mouth twisted in a cruel smile.

Don froze. "You killed him," he whispered.

"Hey!"

The shout came from the direction of the house, and Don's head whipped around as his heart sank. Coming toward him at a dead run were the two people he once trusted to watch his back more than anyone else. Now, they were the two biggest threats he could imagine.

A blow suddenly struck his jaw, and he staggered back. Brock had taken advantage of his distraction to duck away from the gun and plow a fist into his face. Then he realized the other man was reaching around behind his back. It didn't take too much of a mental leap to figure out what he had there.

He leaped back and shouted, "Colby! Gun!" as he broke for the back doors of the barn. The last thing he saw over his shoulder was Brock crouching down behind the riding mower, aiming at the FBI agents heading towards the front entrance.

oooooooooooooooooo

Colby followed David towards the barn, both of them with guns drawn but not raised. There were clearly voices coming from inside, and one of them was more than a little familiar. He shifted slightly to the left, just enough to get a glimpse of the two men. What he saw chilled his blood. Don Eppes was standing there with a gun digging into the neck of another man whom he had only seen pictures of, a man who was supposed to be dead. He'd never doubted that his former boss had really seen Alex Brock, but seeing him alive was still a shock.

But then, given Don's current stance, that might not be Brock's status for much longer anyway.

"Hey!" he shouted, hoping to distract Don.

It worked, but not in the way Colby had hoped. To his horror, the killer slugged Don and started reaching behind him. He broke into a sprint, David doing the same a step ahead of him.

"Gun!" he heard Don shout before taking off at a dead run.

"I got him," David called, gesturing inside the barn and taking cover around the corner from the front door. "You're faster, you go."

Colby had always been proud of his speed. He'd never begrudged the fact that he was the one most likely to catch a fleeing suspect, never regretted that he was the one with the greater lung capacity and the runner's legs. He was used to being the speedy one of their partnership and had won more than a few ten dollar bills over the years from his abilities.

He'd never wished more fervently that he didn't have to give chase.

Don was about fifty yards ahead, entering the cornfield behind the barn. Colby marked the spot where he had entered, sure that all of the rows would look the same once he got closer. He plunged into the field at the same spot, holding one arm up in front of him to keep the surprisingly sharp leaves from cutting into his face. The earth gave slightly under his feet, but the footing was more secure than he had feared it would be. What surprised him was the height of the plants; most of them were almost as tall as he was, making it difficult to see the man he was chasing. _Whatever happened to "knee-high by the Fourth of July"?_

He heard a rustling sound ahead, but couldn't get a glimpse of his quarry. Concentrating on the sound, he heard it slightly to the left, and dodged into the next row over. Sure enough, he could make out Don's figure running about the same distance ahead, although the corn plants obscured his view.

"Hey, Don!" he shouted. "Come on, man!"

There was no reply except a quick glance over his shoulder. Colby dug in harder, pushing himself to run faster. He knew he was faster than David, had proven it on more than one occasion. He was still convinced that despite his grumbling, if he hadn't been the one running Che Lobo's money around downtown L.A. over a year ago, Jo Santiago wouldn't have been reunited with his dad. But he'd never gone one-on-one with his boss before, and he was afraid that despite his own quickness, Don had the edge.

If nothing else, he certainly had the motivation.

Up ahead, the corn was coming to an end, the intensely green leaves thinning out against the blindingly blue sky. He burst out of the row onto a dirt road, stumbling a little as he looked to see which way Don had gone. He had cut to the left, following the dirt track along the edge of the field. Either he had ditched his gun or tucked it away somewhere, because he wasn't holding it in either hand. Colby spun and took off again, breathing deep and trying to make this an endurance run rather than the sprint it had started out as.

Casting another glance over his shoulder, Don dove back into the corn plants, but from the motion of the leaves, Colby could tell that he wasn't going very far into the field. That gave him the opportunity to catch up, and he used it to his advantage. Then a breeze blew across the field, and all of the leaves started nodding and swaying, not just the ones where Don was passing by. He slowed his pace slightly, straining his eyes. There. He must have cut down a row again, because the plants were bending more markedly in a line extending away from the dirt track he was on. Once again, he noted the row with his eyes and then entered it.

He'd gained a little ground, but not nearly enough. "Don, stop!" he called ahead, his sentences shortened by his lack of spare oxygen as he raced along. "We got Brock." _At least I hope we do._ "You can come back in."

All he got was a frightened look and a change in Don's direction, cutting to the right between rows of dark green leaves. Colby tried to take the hypotenuse route, but found that running a diagonal was just too difficult in the tightly-packed rows of corn. He plowed ahead, both arms in front of him now, his breath coming shorter and shorter.

The long, low sound of a horn caught his attention. He looked up to see a train coming down the track that bordered the field they were running through. It was about half a mile away, a long line of black cars filled with coal, the engine emitting dirty grey puffs of smoke. As it approached the dirt road they had just been on, it sounded its horn again, a mournful sound that cut through the rustling leaves around him.

Colby ran down a slight incline, noticing that the corn was only waist-high here. _Probably standing water here earlier in the season_, he thought. He looked ahead to see that Don had increased his lead, running across the edge of the field next to the train track. The former agent looked back over his shoulder, not at Colby, but at the train. It was slowly gaining on them as it chugged along. Don angled his route slightly, and Colby's heart sank. He couldn't be considering…

_If a train is approaching at fifty miles an hour, and a fugitive is running at six miles an hour on a parallel course, what's the angle he needs to intersect the track at to make sure he doesn't end up smeared over the rails?_ It was funny how often math problems sprang into his head after the last three years in L.A.

But there was no way was he telling Charlie about this one.

"Don, stop!" he shouted with all the breath he could muster, reaching deep down to run even faster and close the distance between them. "It's not worth it!"

If Don heard him, he gave no sign. Head down, arms pumping, he was angling towards the track, up the incline of the gravel ballast supporting the ties and rails at the top of the embankment. The train's horn sounded in sharp warning, the engineer apparently having noticed the man running towards its path. Colby dug in harder, feet sinking slightly into the soft black soil, aware that there was no way he could reach Don in time to grab him back or shove him out of the way.

Don scrambled up the last of the incline, the train now less than two hundred yards away. And then Colby watched helplessly as he leaped over the first rail and came down on his right leg, his ankle twisting beneath him and sending him sprawling to the ground. The train's horn gave another loud blast, followed by the shrieking of brakes that couldn't possibly stop the heavy string of vehicles in anything shorter than a full mile, much less the four hundred feet remaining.

"No!" Colby shouted, heart in his throat.

All he could see was a flash of movement where Don had fallen, and then the train thundered by with a squeal of brakes and a rush of wind.

He ran the last few yards feeling like he was going to throw up. When he got to the embankment, he dropped onto the white gravel, peering under the train as the wheels clacked past, praying as hard as he could that he wouldn't see anything.

What he saw was Don, sprawled on his stomach on the other side of the single track, looking back at him underneath the rolling train, his face creased with pain, but blessedly alive.

"You all right?" Colby shouted past the still-screeching brakes, his heart pounding as loudly in his ears as the thumping wheels of the slowing train.

The other man gave a brief nod, then reached for something at his ankle. Colby thought at first that he was checking to see how badly he was hurt. But the expression that crossed his face was alarm rather than pain. His head whipped up, and he scanned the tracks in between the two of them. His gaze caught on something, and then a grim look settled across his features.

Sitting between the two iron rails beneath the now-slowly-moving train was a standard FBI-issue Glock 23 pistol.

Colby looked up to see Don regarding him intently. A moment passed with nothing but the earsplitting sounds of the train and the breeze cooling his sweat-soaked back while they stared at each other. Then Don gathered his feet underneath him and shouted, barely audible over the squealing brakes, "Tell Javier: Brock killed Boudreaux."

Hating himself but knowing he had to do it, Colby reached back and drew his weapon. Then he slowly raised it to point beneath the train at his former boss. "You can tell her yourself," he called back.

The flash of betrayal across Don's face was something he would never forget. He slowly raised his hands with a calculating expression that Colby had felt on his own face when he was trying to work out how to get out of a tight situation. The train had nearly come to a stop, and the interval between the passing wheels grew longer. Colby rose to a crouch, never taking his eyes or his aim off the man across the tracks. A boxcar rolled past, the wheels momentarily blocking his view. Then another set of wheels passed.

And Don was gone.

"Damn it!" Colby looked frantically from side to side, but the slowly moving wheels blocked his view. He listened and heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel, then nothing. He dropped back down to the ground and saw Don racing away from the tracks, limping slightly on his right side as he disappeared into another cornfield. He thought about firing a warning shot, but there was no way for him to see what he was aiming at. It would still be several seconds before the train stopped completely, and even then, it wouldn't be a good idea to dodge underneath or between the stopped cars. He had no desire to end up as a pancake.

He whipped out his phone and pressed "1". David answered in two rings. "You got him?" Colby demanded.

"No," came the frustrated growl at the other end. "He had a damn motorcycle in the back of the barn. Nearly ran me over on his way out."

"Crap." Colby related his unsuccessful chase as well.

"Still, we've got one thing." He could picture the gleam in David's eye based on his tone of voice.

"Yeah, I guess we saw Brock," Colby said, sliding his gun back into its holster.

"Better than that. His fingerprints are all over the damn barn."

Colby felt a grin forming on his face. "We'll have to reopen the case, won't we?"

"That's right. Hey, you'd better go talk to the engineer, let him know that no one got hurt."

"I'll do that. See you in a few." He also wanted the engineer's contact information for the inevitable inquiry into how a fugitive had gotten away one more time. Colby turned and started jogging towards the front of the train, shaking his head. He couldn't have tried any harder, he knew it. He just hoped Javier and his superiors would believe that.

Over his shoulder, he threw a whispered, "Good luck, Don," as he ran.

ooooooooooooooo

A/N: So picture me watching the season opener and giggling like mad as _Colby_ jumps in front of a train to get away from _Don_, who has a gun aimed at him but can't bring himself to shoot. (eyeroll) Seems like I wrote the characters a little more straight-arrow than I should have, though. Oh well, that's why it's an AU!


	22. 11a: The Road Goes Ever On

A/N: Stafford, IN, was where Kimble and Girard were from in the original "Fugitive" TV series. No, I didn't expect anyone to get that. Yes, I am obsessed with "The Fugitive." Those familiar with theoriginalspy's recaps will understand why Don first saw Colby and David while working at IHOP. And yes, Don might trust Colby and David, but Brock told him he wouldn't be safe in custody, so on he runs…

Note that the first half of this chapter is considerably longer than the second half, again for dramatic effect. Don't worry, it's not _that_ kind of dramatic effect. Don deserves to catch his breath once in a while, don't you think?

Disclaimer and thanks are in the prologue. Bonus thanks to annie for sticking with me. :) Oh, and this one's for Izhilzha, because she asked nicely.

oooooooooooooooooooooooo

Chapter 11: The Road Goes Ever On

Saturday, June 7, 2008  
8:55 P.M.  
I-70, Kansas

The sun was setting over the wheat fields, the golden stalks taking on an orange and then faintly purple glow in the last of twilight. Overhead, the deepening blue sky was showing the first faint pinpricks of stars. Don leaned his head against the window of the bus and stared out at the scenery. It was the same view he'd had for the last hundred miles or so, constant except for the occasional freeway exit and the ever-changing lighting as the sun set ahead of them.

The seat next to him was empty, and he shifted sideways to take advantage of the extra room. He bunched his jacket up for a pillow and stuffed it under his head. The bus was scheduled to get into Denver in the middle of the night, and then it was another three-hour ride to the mountain town where he was headed, with more walking beyond that. He was exhausted, not having slept for more than a couple of hours since fleeing from Colby and David the previous day. He'd run on for as long as his ankle could take it, finally catching a ride from a sympathetic stranger into Indianapolis, where he'd hopped the first bus heading west.

He'd been hoping to open the newspaper the next morning and see an account of Alex Brock's capture, but he'd been sadly disappointed. A quick stop in an Internet café during a layover in St. Louis had garnered the information from a two-paragraph article in the L.A. Times that the FBI was considering reopening his case based on new evidence, but that was all. Upon reading that, he'd pounded the table with a fist, startling the teenage boy next to him playing some kind of online video game. Ironically, up until yesterday, that news would have filled him with hope. But after coming face to face with Liz's killer, after literally having him in his grasp, it was bitter disappointment to realize that somehow Brock had slipped away as well.

His eyelids were drooping, but his mind was unable to shut down. He'd been pondering the connections between Brock and Boudreaux and Liz and the unknown fourth party in the L.A. office for the past day, and he wasn't getting anywhere. He'd long ago figured out that whoever was really behind the corruption and bribery charges that he'd been accused of had changed around all of the evidence to point to him, which suggested someone with access to his case. He'd wondered for a long time if it was Javier, but even before Chicago, he'd figured that couldn't be true. She had really honestly thought he was the guilty party, and as much as that had shocked him to realize, it was almost as hard to accept that she now believed him innocent.

The problem was that there was obviously someone else pulling the strings. Someone had send Alex Brock to Chicago to kill Boudreaux, probably the same someone who had gotten him out of jail in Virginia by faking his death, thus freeing him to take on contracts while maintaining a certain invisibility. And that was the part Don was having a hard time understanding. He was familiar with the crimes that Liz had supposedly uncovered in his name, and while the dollar amounts weren't individually that high, they did add up to a substantial sum. To be sure, the money had been sent offshore and wound up in an account in his name that would allow him to retire in modest comfort, were that money really his. But looking at it from the perpetrator's point of view, to be able to throw that kind of money away on a setup, to accept that the FBI would make the funds inaccessible, meant that someone had a lot more where that came from. He didn't think that even the head of a major field office had that kind of wealth, and if the unknown FBI agent in L.A. did, he sure wouldn't still be working for the Bureau.

So he was mentally reviewing case files from all of the enemies he'd made over the years, with an eye towards the well-off ones. Even with access to the FBI database and a few hours of Charlie's time, it would be a long shot. Working only on what he could remember, it was nearly hopeless. But maybe something would trigger a memory, either someone who had vowed revenge from prison or someone whose criminal operations had been curtailed but not eliminated. And since Brock would be as far away from Indiana as he could get right now, and since Don had no way to trace him, this was all he could do. That, and counting on David and Colby to talk the Bureau into reopening his case based on new evidence. They must have gotten a good look at Brock, and if not, his fingerprints were bound to be all over the barn. _Take that, Javier_.

In the meantime, he needed a place to rest and regroup. He had a spot in mind that he had considered and rejected a number of times before. Early on in his escape, it had been too obvious a place to go, or at least too obvious a person for him to contact. He didn't know how many people his old partner had told about his cabin in the Rocky Mountains, but it might well be more than he knew. So he'd refused to allow himself to think of the potential haven as he'd made his way across the country. By now, months into his flight, his old contacts were probably largely being left alone. Given the turn his case had taken, in fact, he was sure Javier was leaving them alone. He didn't know if the cabin would be occupied, but he thought he would be welcome there. And the thought of a place to rest, to just stay _still_ for a couple of days, was more attractive than just about anything he could imagine.

The bus rolled on into the darkness, and he dozed fitfully, his dreams filled with flashes of cornfields and alleyways, trains and subways, blond assassins and brown-haired FBI agents pointing guns at him. But no matter what the setting was in his dreams, he was always, always running.

oooooooooooooooooooo

Monday, June 9, 2008  
5:45 P.M.  
Lorden Hall, CalSci

"Hey guys, come in." Charlie smiled at David and Colby as they appeared in his office doorway. "Want a piece?" He gestured towards the pizza boxes open on his desk.

David looked briefly at the other occupant of the office: Larry, seated in front of Charlie's desk, with a paper plate in his hand. "I take it there's no tomato sauce?" he asked with a lift of an eyebrow.

"On the contrary, my fiancée has convinced me that an occasional foray into the nightshade family has its culinary place," Larry replied before taking a bite of the cheese pizza in his hand.

"Your fiancée." David chuckled as he came in and reached for a plate. "I still can't get used to that."

"He seems to like saying it as often as possible," Charlie needled. "I don't think he's used to it, either."

A faint blush was staining Larry's cheeks. Aloud, he said, "I take it that the lovely Agent Reeves didn't make the journey with you?"

David shook his head, picking up a piece of pepperoni and popping it into his mouth. "She and Matt had an interview to conduct on our latest case. Since we're not here in any official capacity, it was hard to insist that she come along."

Charlie nodded. "Colby, you coming in?"

Colby was still leaning against the doorframe. "Yeah," he said quietly, taking a few steps forward, keeping his eyes on the window, on the pizza—anywhere but on Charlie.

Puzzled, Charlie looked at David, who was regarding his partner with a knowing look. "Larry," the FBI agent said, "is there a vending machine nearby you could show me? Pizza's always better with a cold soda."

"Certainly," Larry said, rising from his seat. "Then I should check on the program tracing back the origin of the phone numbers found in Mr. Michalak's cellular phone."

Charlie watched them both leave. "Have a seat," he said quietly to Colby, who still wasn't looking at him. His voice took on a harder edge. "And then tell me what the hell is wrong."

Colby's head shot up at the sharp words. He met Charlie's gaze for only a moment, but long enough to catch the guilt in the other man's eyes. Charlie's stomach churned, but he had to know what was going on. They were meeting here to discuss the results of their first crack at working with Agent Javier to clear Don's name, and as far as he knew, Colby and David had told no one what happened on their trip to Indiana. Watching the almost nervous expression on the other man's face, he felt the tension in his gut grow tighter. "Colby," he started. "What happened?"

"That's what I'd like to know."

Both of them whirled to look at the newcomer. Agent Javier stood in the doorway, arms folded over her navy blazer, glaring at Colby. "There was a very interesting story in the paper today," she said, holding up a folded-over copy of the L.A. Times. "Small story, but quite enlightening. It seems the FBI is considering reopening the investigation into the conviction of a fugitive from Los Angeles. It sure would have been nice to find that out some other way than in the paper." She tossed the paper at Colby, and he let it hit him in the chest. "What the hell did you do on your 'vacation'?"

Charlie's heart leapt. "Is that true?" he demanded of the agent seated across the desk from him.

Colby picked up the paper and tossed it into the nearby trash can. "We said we were there on unofficial business. The local cops must have contacted the press when they found out why they were gathering fingerprints, and they must have contacted the L.A. field office."

"Fingerprints?" Javier's voice rose as she stepped into the room. "Belonging to whom?"

"Alex Brock." David's voice came from behind her as he shut the door. "We saw him, Javier. Both of us. And so did Don."

"You saw Don?" Charlie exploded to his feet. "Is he okay?"

David hesitated, and he felt his heart sinking. He looked back at Colby, and was suddenly afraid to know why the other man had been avoiding him. "Oh no," he whispered.

Colby held up his hands. "He's okay, Charlie. He—he twisted his ankle trying to get away, but he's all right."

Javier took a step forward. "Did you at least _try_ to catch up with him?"

"Of course I did," he retorted. "He took a pretty big risk and it paid off. I couldn't follow him."

"You mean you didn't try hard enough to follow him."

Charlie was used to thinking of Colby Granger as relatively easy-going, but the man who rose from his seat and loomed over Javier was anything but. He snapped at her, "I mean I couldn't follow him. I was chasing him when he ran in front of a train with seconds to spare. It wasn't possible to catch him. Ask the damn engineer who nearly saw Don splattered on the tracks in front of him."

Charlie felt the blood drain from his face as he sank back into his chair. "Oh my God," he whispered.

Colby turned to him, the anger on his face changing to concern in an instant. "Charlie, he's fine. I saw him run off on the other side of the train. After…." His voice trailed off and he took a deep breath. "After he told me that Brock was the one who killed Lee Boudreaux. And after I pulled my gun on him to get him to stay put."

Charlie's eyes widened, and he swallowed. Colby was looking back at him now, guilt and worry forming a strange combination on his face. He suddenly realized that despite the support Don had from everyone in this room—or at least everyone on his former team—that they were first and foremost FBI agents. They were still obligated to bring in a fugitive on the run, no matter whether they believed him innocent or not. And Don obviously knew that, too, or he wouldn't have taken such a tremendous risk to get away.

David cleared his throat and started sketching out the story of how Brock had nearly run him down during his own escape. When he finished talking, Javier said, "We still have the problem that a major newspaper is reporting that something significant has changed in this case. Whoever our leak is in the FBI, they're bound to see that and realize their game is up."

"That's where I can help." Charlie cleared his throat as Javier turned to fix her gaze on him. "I finished analyzing the connections between the agents at the L.A. field office and Lee Boudreaux."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "And?"

He stood up and went to the chalkboard across the room, indicating a list of numbers. "I thought it would be easier to use ID numbers rather than names to conduct the analysis, so that's what you see listed here. Mathematically speaking, identifying the connections is rather simple. The challenge was in creating a software robot to extract the data from the FBI personnel files without triggering any notice."

Javier cut in, her tone flat. "I don't need a math lesson, I just need to know who was working with Boudreaux."

Charlie gave her same look he gave his students who asked if something he was lecturing about was going to be on the test. "I'm not talking because I like the sound of my voice," he said sharply. "I'm talking because you need to understand how I came up with what I'm about to tell you. You need to believe that it's true and not take it on faith."

"Dr. Eppes, I rarely take anything on faith," she retorted. "You have even more invested in this case than I do, and you're very careful and methodical in your work. I trust that you're not going to make a mistake."

He stared back at her. Was that a vote of confidence or a condescending dismissal? Could it be both at once?

"Charlie, any other time we'd love to hear it," Colby broke in, almost sounding sincere. "But can you get to the punchline?"

He looked from one of them to the other, biting back what he wanted to say. Don would have stood there and let him explain it all, not to make him feel better but because he knew the derivation of the results was as important as the results themselves. Not that he hadn't checked his work several times over, but he always felt more secure explaining it to someone else. But every once in a while, something like this made him realize how acutely he missed his brother, and how much of a hole in his life there was without him.

"Fine," he said shortly, pulling off a piece of paper he had taped to the blackboard. "There were twelve people in the L.A. field office at the time of Liz's murder who worked directly under or with Boudreaux at some point in the past. Another fifty have interacted with him at training sessions or conferences. Of those sixty-two, six have since left for other offices, three have retired, and one was killed in the line of duty."

"That leaves fifty-two possibilities," Javier instantly replied. "How can you narrow that down for us?"

Charlie was about to retort hotly when he saw the look in her eyes. It reminded him of one of the first cases he worked on for Don, analyzing a pattern of bank robberies and blithely sending his brother's team into a shootout that left Don wounded and an agent dead. It was a look that said she knew she had made a mistake with catastrophic consequences and that she wasn't going to stop driving herself and everyone around her until it was made right. He hadn't been able to face that culpability and had retreated into P vs. NP, hiding from himself as much as from the bloody bandage on his brother's arm. Once Don had forced him out into the daylight of reality, he had driven himself to find the right answer and do what he could to correct his mistake.

Based on what he knew of Geraldina Javier's personality, she was doing the same thing.

So it was with an even tone that he replied, "I created an index that combines the closeness of each suspect's ties to Boudreaux with their level of access to Don's case, and I ranked the fifty-two people from there. I was about to go back and match the ID numbers to the agents' names when you all arrived."

Javier nodded. "We can wait."

He stopped himself from rolling his eyes. "Have dinner while you wait," he said, indicating the pizza boxes. "And once Larry finishes with the cell phone you gave him, we can see if any of those numbers correspond to any of the fifty-two people."

She pulled a piece of cheese pizza out of the box and perched on an empty chair near the window, seemingly content with being the outsider. David dropped into the chair next to Colby, and the two of them started a low conversation about the possible connections between the hired killer and the murdered FBI director. Charlie tuned them out as he worked, tapping into the FBI database and uploading the series of ID numbers he had, watching as the computer flashed through a series of faces and names. When he was done, he downloaded the profiles and sorted them according to his index. The first name and picture came up, and he froze.

"What is it?" Javier asked sharply. She had apparently been watching him while he worked, given the speed of her response.

Before Charlie could bring himself to reply, the door opened, and Larry stepped in, closing it behind him. "My program has completed the initial stages of analysis; it is currently searching for the names corresponding to the incoming and outgoing calls. I have procured a list of phone numbers, however."

Pulling a pair of reading glasses out of her jacket pocket and slipping them on, Javier came forward and took the paper out of his hands, quickly scanning it. When she got towards the bottom, her face suddenly turned white, and she closed her eyes. "Oh my God…" she whispered.

"What is it?" Colby asked, looking back and forth between her and Charlie.

"You recognize his cell number, don't you?" Charlie asked, his mouth dry. He turned his laptop around so they could all see the screen. "He's the first one on my list. Tom Metzke."

David drew in a sharp breath, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Colby drawing his head back. But his eyes were locked on Javier, who was taking one deep, shaky breath after another. Suddenly she crumpled up the piece of paper and hurled it at the ground. "God _damn_ it," she shouted, turning around and stalking towards the far corner of his office before pacing back and forth, her heels beating out a sharp rhythm on the tile floor.

They all watched her warily, no one daring to speak. After fifteen seconds that stretched like an eternity, she paused and looked up at Charlie and Larry. "You're sure?" she asked, her tone brittle.

"It makes sense," Charlie started. "He had more access than anyone in the office, he was in a better position to plant evidence—"

"Are you sure that his cell number was on the hit man's phone and that he's closely connected to Lee Boudreaux?" Her voice was as cold as he'd ever heard it, even when she was interrogating him in Washington, her words carefully enunciated so as to make no mistake.

"Yes," he and Larry said in quiet unison.

She looked back and forth between them, her whiskey-colored eyes flashing with more emotion that he thought the cool and composed agent possessed. Finally she said, her voice nearly breaking, "I need to go for a walk," and strode towards the door. She slammed it behind her, sending a rush of wind through the room.

The four men looked at each other, and Colby let out a gusty sigh. "That would explain a lot."

"He's been part of it all along," Charlie said, his voice shaking. "He was never investigating Liz's murder, he was framing Don. The _entire time_." He added to himself, _How the hell had Javier not seen that?_

"Time to call A.D. Wright?" David asked, tight-lipped.

Charlie shook his head. "We should go through the other fifty-one first. There might be more than one person involved, and we don't want to tip them off."

"The damn Indiana police already tipped them off by going to the press," Colby growled. "The faster we move on this, the better."

Larry was pulling another cell out of his pocket. "I'm going to call Megan and request that she make her presence available here. We need her input as well."

Charlie nodded in agreement, then sat back in his chair. On the one hand, he was so furious he could hardly see straight. On the other hand, they still didn't have anything they could use as legal evidence, but a crack in the door like this might be all it took to take down the conspiracy that had been plotting against Don. He looked at the corner of a postcard of St. Louis that had come in today's mail, sticking out from beneath a vector calculus book. _Soon, bro_, he thought to himself. _With a little luck, you can come home soon_.

oooooooooooooooooooo

Wednesday, June 11, 2008  
6:45 P.M.  
Blue River Valley, CO

There was a rustling in the bushes across the creek, and Don's head shot up, his arms tensing to push himself off the rock he was sitting on. A second later, a deer nudged its way through the shrubs and started to drink from the clear mountain water. He relaxed a fraction, but his small motion didn't go unnoticed. The animal lifted its head, startled, and then turned tail and fled into the aspen trees across the stream.

_Someone's even more skittish than me_, he thought wryly. Even after three days in this mountain hideaway without seeing another soul, his senses were still on high alert. It wasn't exactly surprising after six months of being on the run, but it was still tiring. At least he'd been sleeping well, although it was hard to sleep in since the sun rose well before six o'clock. Still, he'd been relieved to find the place not only empty, but stocked with food. His funds had been running low since he was forced to leave Indiana without collecting any of his pay, and he was grateful for the temporary haven here.

His stomach rumbled as if on cue, and he rose from the sun-warmed boulder, casting one last look at the rushing stream. It was a beautiful place, there was no doubt about it. Billy Cooper had chosen the spot for his mountain cabin wisely. Don had only been here once before, on a fishing trip they'd taken just before he settled down at the Albuquerque office. It had been nearly eight years ago, but he hadn't had any trouble finding the place. South of Breckenridge, nestled up against the mountain range that formed one edge of the long, green-and-blue valley, the cabin was plain but sufficient. He didn't know how often Billy came up here, but he was hoping not to encounter him. Sure, they'd made that pledge to each other years ago that if one of them was in trouble, the other would help, no questions asked, but he couldn't be sure that extended to the current situation.

His mind flashed back to his mad dash through the cornfields and the nearly suicidal decision to use a swiftly-moving train as a barrier between himself and pursuit, and what had come after. He'd known when they were teammates that Colby Granger would always watch his back, but in the end, the agent's job had to come first. Shocked and betrayed as he'd felt to be at the other end of Colby's gun, he understood. Heck, he'd probably have done the same thing in similar circumstances. But it left him with the bitter realization that short of people he didn't want to endanger, like Charlie and his dad, there wasn't anyone he could rely on to help him right now.

He walked back down the path to the cabin, enjoying the warm sunshine and the gentle breeze rustling the aspen leaves overhead. He hadn't gone any farther in the past three days than the quarter-mile walk to the stream, using the time to sit and think and try to figure out what to do next. There was no phone or television at the cabin, so he had no way of knowing what was going on in the outside world. He figured in another couple of days, he'd brave the trek into town to pick up a newspaper. In the chi-chi ski town of Breckenridge, he'd probably even find an Internet café if he wanted to search the news in more detail.

Dinner was another can of soup, and he eyed the shelves critically as the pan heated on the stove. There wasn't more than a few days' worth of food left, but he didn't have an easy way to obtain more. He supposed he could try his luck at finding handyman work, although that hadn't gone too well for him in Pennsylvania. But he'd have to think of something before long.

He ate the soup while sitting in front of the large window in the tiny living room, looking out over a breathtaking view of the mountains on the other side of the valley. Here in the height of summer, there was still a little snow visible on the tops of the highest peaks, but for the most part, they were barren grey and purple on top, followed at lower elevations with the pine green of spruce and a paler green where the aspen trees were concentrated. The sun was already sliding behind the mountains to the west, darkness coming early to the valley. He finished up the soup and brought the bowl back into the kitchen, carefully washing it and the pot and putting them both away. He'd learned a long time ago the high probability that he would have to leave at a moment's notice, and he didn't want to risk leaving a clear marker of his presence. He was reluctant to use the lights, not knowing how close the nearest neighbors were or how well-acquainted they were with the cabin's usual resident, so he made his way through the living room in the growing dusk towards the small bedroom and its double bed.

Don had just reached the doorway when he heard the distant crunch of tires on gravel. Someone was coming up the drive. He froze, pressing his back against the wall. The driveway went up to the back door off the kitchen, but it was impossible to make it out the front without being seen from the driveway. He could see twin headlight beams cutting through the twilight and then coming to a stop. The car engine turned off, and his heart started to pound. For a wild moment, he wondered if this was still Billy's cabin, but he reminded himself of the framed photo next to the bed of his old partner next to a petite blond woman. The only question now was if he was going to have to make a break for it yet again.

There was a jingling of keys outside, then a pause. He figured Billy had noticed the kitchen curtains pushed to one side, a subtle signal that the cabin was occupied. He heard the doorknob turn, and then the creak as it swung open. Footsteps came inside, and then the door shut. Then a familiar voice called out. "I was wondering if you were going to show up here at some point."

Don remained in the hallway, listening closely. That was Coop's voice, no doubt about it. He only heard one person, but despite the words of welcome, he wasn't about to step out and expose himself.

He heard the thump of a bag being set on a counter. "Don, if you're in here, come on out. Nothing's gonna happen to you."

The living room light clicked on. Then there were footsteps drawing closer, and Don shrank back against the wall. Cooper's voice sounded from just around the corner. "I know you must be tired, Eppes, but you're slipping."

Don's head shot up as his stomach sank. Reflected on the inside of the living-room window were two figures on either side of the wall, himself and his former partner. He slowly took a step forward and into view, tensing himself to fight or run if necessary.

Billy Cooper stood in the kitchen doorway, hands on his hips. "You wouldn't have left the signal if you didn't want me to know you were here," he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the curtains across the back door.

Don took a sideways step, not taking his eyes off the other man. "Maybe I didn't mean for us to both be here at the same time."

"There's nothing to worry about," Coop said, shaking his head. "You're safe here."

Don let out a huff of breath. "I'm a fugitive, and you're one of the best Fugitive Recovery specialists there is. I can't ask you to ignore the fact that I'm here."

"Not any more, I'm not."

He gave him a puzzled look, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "What?"

Billy gave an easy shrug and leaned back against the wall, folding his arms in front of him. "I quit."

Don stared at him. "Since when?"

"When was it you were arrested? Almost a year ago?"

"You're kidding." He had known throughout this nightmare of his that he still had people who supported him, but this was extreme. "That's why you quit?"

Billy's mouth twisted in a grin. "Well, one of the reasons," he said, deliberately repositioning his arms across his chest.

A flash of gold caught Don's eye, and he stared at the wedding band on the other man's hand. "You're kidding," he repeated.

The grin turned into a full-fledged smile. "Our anniversary's in three months," he said. Then his face fell. "I would have invited you to the wedding, but you were, well…"

Don nodded, pursing his lips. "Yeah, I wasn't exactly able to travel much last fall."

Billy snorted. "Now that's an understatement if I ever heard one."

"Is she here?" Don asked, tensing up again. He knew his old partner would stand by him, but a stranger might not so willingly accept the risk of having him in her home.

"No, I got a week up here by myself." His face turned serious, and he came forward, reaching out to put a hand on Don's shoulder. "You're safe here," he said again. "For as long as you want it."

Don searched the other man's eyes for a moment, then nodded in acceptance. He clasped Coop's shoulder in return, unable to come up with the words to tell him how grateful he was. But from the compassionate way Billy was regarding him, he had the feeling that he knew.

oooooooooooooooooooo

A/N: "Heck, he'd probably have done the same thing in similar circumstances." Oh, the irony!


	23. 11b: The Road Goes Ever On

A/N: Thanks to everyone for your reviews. It sounds like you're going to agree with Don at the end of this half-chapter…

Disclaimer. Acknowledgments. Prologue. Done.

oooooooooooooooooooo

Saturday, June 14, 2008  
8:59 P.M.  
Fontana, CA

Nearly a week after the shocking revelations of the two CalSci professors, Dina was still furious: mostly at herself for being so ridiculously blind to what was going on under her nose, but also at Tom Metzke for being a traitor all along. She didn't doubt that once they started digging into the evidence he had compiled on Eppes, they'd find that most of it pointed straight back to him. For now, though, they had to focus on finding the bastard and getting him in an interrogation room.

She'd gone to A.D. Wright after a final discussion with the rest of her unofficial team, who had agreed in the end that the faster they moved on this, the better. Since the Assistant Director wasn't one of Dr. Eppes' fifty-one suspects, she assigned herself the unpleasant task of explaining to him not only what had gone wrong, but how. He was relieved to hear of Don Eppes' probable innocence, and he was as angry as she was about Metzke. He'd authorized her to take on as many agents as she needed, whomever she wanted, to track down Metzke and reopen Eppes' case, while keeping it need-to-know for now. In the end, she had chosen five: Eppes' old team members and the new guy, plus her own remaining teammate, all cleared by Charlie's analysis. Surprisingly, none of them had verbally objected, although she did catch a mutinous glare from Granger every once in a while.

When she had told Chad Danvers what was going on, he looked sick to his stomach. Staring off into the distance, he said, "You know, once or twice, I thought, 'What if he's right? What if this is all a frame-up?' And if that's true, wouldn't it make sense for Tom—or you—to be behind it?" He shook his head, his blue eyes determined. "Anything you need from me, Dina, I'll give it. I've spent way too much time assisting an enemy without even knowing it."

She couldn't pull her new team off their current cases, and in the interests of keeping things quiet until the rest of the field office was cleared from suspicion, they couldn't meet openly. Dr. Eppes' CalSci office became a second headquarters, the seven of them plus his physicist colleague coming and going at all hours. She wondered how much time he was spending at home, then figured his father probably understood, probably even encouraged it. She hadn't had the courage yet to deliver a much-needed apology to Alan Eppes; it was just as well that they met at Charlie's office and not his home.

Now, after five days of unrelenting work, they had a solid lead. Metzke's debit and credit cards had remained untouched, and a review of airport, train, and bus station surveillance cameras aided by Charlie's skinprint system had turned up nothing. Of course, he might have simply gotten in his car and driven out of town, scared by Boudreaux's murder and fleeing to save his own skin. But a subpoena of his cell phone records that came through this afternoon had found a call within the last twelve hours connecting through three different cell towers in the Inland Empire, as the cities east of L.A. were dubbed. That gave them a relatively small radius in which to search, and a scan through local traffic cameras had turned up his license plate at a nearby motel.

"You ready?" Chad was fastening the last strap on her Kevlar, and she tensed as the vest pulled at the FBI shirt she wore underneath, tightening the material slightly around her neck. She nervously pulled the shirt back down, making sure there was nothing even close to obstructing her airway.

"Yeah," she finally said, checking her weapon one last time. Granger had brought in her old piece from Indiana, but it was now sitting in an evidence locker in the FBI building, so she was still using her backup. Some small part of her couldn't help but wonder how Eppes was doing without a weapon at hand. She shook her head to chase away the thought.

"You ready?" she asked Sinclair, who was fastening his partner's vest on the other side of the van.

He nodded. "We're right behind you."

The irony of the comment wasn't lost on her, but she only replied with a nod, shoving her Glock into its holster. "Let's do it."

In the end, it was disappointingly easy. Reeves and her partner had cleared out the guests on either side of the room registered to their quarry, identified by the motel clerk from a photograph. They lined up on either side of the door, she and Chad opposite each other, Sinclair and Granger behind. Reeves and Haskett were watching the back in case he tried to crawl out the bathroom window. She counted down with three fingers, then nodded at Danvers, who slammed his shoulder into the flimsy door and burst it off its hinges.

"FBI!" she shouted, hearing the echoes behind her as the four of them covered each other as they moved into the room. Metzke had apparently been asleep on top of the threadbare bedspread, but he jerked upright with a start, lunging for the nightstand. Dina was there in a second, knocking his gun to the floor with her left hand while she extended the Glock in her right, stopping two inches from his face. "Don't. Move."

He looked like a trapped animal, bloodshot eyes flickering between them, knowing that there was no way out but still searching for one. She found herself wishing he would try something, just so she would have the excuse of pulling the trigger, but she knew better. Everyone here knew they were going to have to show considerable restraint handing Metzke once they had him; she knew she wasn't the only one who would get grim satisfaction out of putting a bullet in him. But he finally raised his hands and closed his eyes.

Granger snapped the cuffs on him before she could remind him to follow proper procedure, but the look he gave her said, _I know_. Sinclair had put his gun away, but she still had hers out, just in case Metzke tried something despite the four of them in the room and the two more who had just entered. She finally took a deep breath and spoke in an even, measured tone. "Thomas Metzke, you're under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, fraud, tampering with evidence, and pretty much every single charge for which you framed Don Eppes."

He met her gaze for only a second, but it was long enough for her to catch the defeat in his eyes. Something that had been tightening in her ever since seeing his cell number on Dr. Fleinhardt's list started to loosen, and she calmly read him his rights before Granger and Sinclair hauled him out of the room.

"Dina, you better take a look at this." Chad was standing by the room's sad excuse for a desk: smaller than her microwave stand with the formica top half peeled away. He was sorting though a pile of handwritten pages interspersed with photographs, and he handed one over to her as she approached.

She took the paper and stared at it for a moment. When she realized what it was, her skin began to crawl. "Oh, God," she muttered.

"What is it?" Reeves asked from over her shoulder.

Dina gave a start at the other woman's unexpected proximity. "It's, um, it's everywhere I've been in the past week. He's been following me, noting when I left home, taking pictures of me when I went shopping…everything." She looked out the cracked plate glass window at the red-haired man being shoved into an SUV. "I wonder if he was doing it on his own or if someone told him to do it."

"Either way, it explains why he hadn't left town yet," Chad replied, his eyes full of concern. "It's a good thing we found him when we did."

"Well, we've got him now," Reeves said in a steely voice. "And I think we're gonna have to draw straws to see who gets to do the interrogation."

Dina tossed the paper onto the desk and gestured at the pile, frowning. "Well, it obviously can't be me, since I'm apparently going to be a subject of one of the charges."

Reeves laid a hand on her upper arm. "Don't worry," she said, her almost gleeful expression visible in the dusty mirror in front of them. "We'll take _good_ care of him."

oooooooooooooooooooo

Sunday, June 15, 2008  
6:15 P.M.  
Blue River Valley, CO

Don was sitting by the stream again, watching the rushing water flow by. He'd been resting here for a week now, giving his ankle and his nerves time to heal, and he was surprised to feel that he was ready to move on. The problem was, he didn't know where to go. Despite brainstorming with Billy, he hadn't come up with any obvious candidates for the mastermind behind his framing, and he had no leads on where Alex Brock might have gone to. Meg's long-ago suggestion that he look into the corruption charges, not Liz's murder, seemed like a good idea, but he had no way to do that from where he was. Much as the idea of hiding out here indefinitely appealed to him, he needed to get going and do something himself, instead of waiting for help that might or might not come from Javier or his former teammates.

He heard footsteps on the path, and he whirled around. "It's just me," came Cooper's voice as he strode into view. "I've got something you're gonna want to take a look at." He tossed a newspaper at Don. "Page three," he said, dropping onto the boulder next to him.

Don turned over the front page of the Denver Post and stared at the headline. "FBI reopens fugitive case," it read. He looked up at Cooper in shock. "Read it," the other man said, gesturing to the page-long story.

He quickly read about the discovery that a member of the L.A. field office had been arrested for conspiracy to commit murder and a whole host of other crimes that sounded suspiciously familiar. The article quoted Special Agent Geraldina Javier at length, including a picture of her at a news conference, right above his own picture. Surprisingly, it wasn't the mug shot that he'd grown inured to seeing, but an older FBI file photo. Although she didn't give specifics, Javier said that new evidence had been brought to light that threw his conviction into doubt, and they would be filing an appeal as soon as possible. Until then, she urged the former Agent Eppes to turn himself into custody so as to expedite the appeal process.

"Like hell," Don muttered, staring at her photo.

Cooper chuckled. "That's what I thought you'd say. Still, you gotta admit that's about the most encouraging news you could read, after what you told me about the last few weeks."

He slowly nodded in agreement. "I wonder who it was."

The other man shrugged. "It doesn't say. But I thought this might help you find out." He held out a cell phone, still in the plastic packaging that identified it as a disposable, pre-paid device.

Don looked up at him and accepted the phone. "Thanks," he said in heartfelt gratitude.

Cooper gave him a quick grin. "Reception's no good up here, but if you go back down the driveway to the main road, you should be able to get a signal. It's only got an hour on it, but that's the best I can do to make it untraceable."

Don clapped his former partner on the shoulder. "Bet you never thought you'd be using all those FBI skills on the other side of the law, did you?"

"No more than you, my friend," Billy replied with a knowing look.

Don turned up the corner of his mouth in agreement and hopped down onto the ground. "See you in a bit," he said, hefting the phone in his hand.

A fifteen-minute walk brought him to the end of the long dirt-and-gravel drive. He stopped short of the main road, ducking back a few feet into the aspens. He tore open the plastic packaging and stared at the phone for a minute. Then he opened it up and dialed a familiar number.

After three rings, he exhaled with relief as he heard his brother's voice. "Hello?"

"Charlie, it's me. Can you talk?"

"Don!"

He winced. "Charlie…"

"It's okay, I'm at home. Where are you? Um, never mind, don't answer that."

Don felt his mouth curving upwards in a grin. "You're catching on."

"Ha ha. So, did you hear the news?"

"Just what's in the paper, but I figure there's more to it than that."

He listened for at least fifteen minutes while Charlie laid out the story of how they had discovered the real culprit at the FBI and how the team had captured him. "They've been interrogating him for the past two days, but he hasn't said anything."

He stared off into the distance, anger rising up in him at the thought that it had not only been someone else in the office, but someone so close to the case. He remembered Metzke questioning him a couple of times, and his blood burned at the thought that he'd been talking to his persecutor and hadn't even known it. "Charlie, that's…" He couldn't find the words to express what he was feeling.

"Yeah, I know," Charlie replied. "Javier is _so_ pissed."

"Yeah, well, I guess I would be too," Don replied, although privately he couldn't imagine not knowing that someone on his own team was actually working with the enemy.

"Megan says that she's working even longer hours now than she did before, trying to find out who Metzke was working with."

"And trying to get me to turn myself in," he added.

"Actually…." Charlie trailed off. "That's what she said in the press conference, but she doesn't really believe it."

He raised his eyebrows. "You're serious?"

"She thinks whoever's behind this has a pretty long arm, and that, well, it might not be safe for you in custody."

He nodded, remembering her words in the alley in Chicago. "She's right about that."

There was a short pause. When Charlie spoke again, his words were much quieter. "Don, I—I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what, buddy?" he asked, puzzled.

"I screwed up in Washington. I thought I was being careful, but it was the ATM withdrawals that let Javier and the…the hit man know where you were. It was all my fault."

"Charlie, no. It was my fault for trying to see you in the first place. I knew it was a big risk, but…" He shook his head, even though the gesture would go unseen. "It was too hard to resist."

"What about right now?" Charlie asked quietly.

"It's not traceable," he assured him. "Besides, it sounds like Javier's focused on other things right now."

"Yeah," Charlie agreed. "Um, if you have a minute, there's someone else here who'd like to talk to you."

Don swallowed nervously in anticipation. "Okay."

A second later, he heard the deep, comforting sound of his father's voice. "Donnie?"

He closed his eyes. "Hey, Dad."

He heard a long sigh. "You have no idea how good it is to hear your voice, son."

"Almost as good as it is to hear yours," he replied softly, looking southwest into the twilight deepening over the mountains, as if pointing himself like a compass would somehow reduce the miles between them.

"How are you?" Alan asked, his voice low.

"I'm okay." He heard a soft snort of disbelief, so he hurried on, "Really, I'm okay. I—I just heard the good news, you know."

"Yes, well, that doesn't mean it's over yet. You keep your head down and stay out of sight. You'll know when it's safe to come home."

_Home._ He hadn't allowed himself to think about that for so many months. All of his efforts had been focused on staying ahead of the authorities, ahead of Boudreaux's assassin, ahead of Javier, that thinking about the future never entered his mind. Even now, he couldn't bear to think about it, because the hope was so new, so fragile.

"How are you doing, Dad?" he asked, his voice slightly rough.

"Oh, as well as can be expected. Your brother and Millie are taking good care of me, don't you worry."

"That's good," he said quietly. "And you're taking care of Charlie, right?"

There was a short huff of breath. "As well as I can when he spends every waking minute at his office. Classes ended this week, but if anything, he's working even harder." Then his voice softened. "Not that he doesn't have good reason to."

Don swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. "I miss you guys," he said, barely audible even to himself.

"Oh, Don," came the heartfelt reply. "We miss you too. So much. "

There was silence for a moment. Then he checked his watch and found that nearly half an hour had elapsed. He cleared his throat. "Dad, I, uh, I want to save the minutes on the phone in case I need it later."

"Oh, okay." Alan was clearing his throat as well. "Do you need to talk to Charlie again?"

"No, that's okay. Tell him…well, I can't say how much I appreciate everything he and the rest of the team are doing."

"He knows, son. They all know." There was a pause, and then Alan added, "And tell whoever's looking out for you that we appreciate it, all right?"

Don bit back a grin at the irony of his father feeling beholden to Billy Cooper, the man whom he'd never quite approved of after their years of partnership together. "I'll do that."

"You take care."

"You too, Dad."

"Good-bye."

He closed the phone and slipped it in his front jeans pocket, sighing. Getting a short chance to talk to his family was almost worse than no chance at all. It stirred all sorts of feelings and longings that he had to keep tamped down most of the time for the sake of his own survival. He really wasn't prepared to think of what going home might mean, not with Liz's killer still out there and at least one other conspirator unidentified, much less incarcerated.

He sighed again and started tramping back up the driveway towards the cabin. He would stay one more night and try to thank Coop as best he could for everything he'd given him in the past week. Then it was time to move on and try and end this thing, once and for all.

oooooooooooooooo


	24. 12a: Running on Empty

A/N: Before you read this half-chapter, it's your last chance to PM me and guess who's behind it all…

Disclaimer and acknowledgments are, guess what, in the Prologue.

ooooooooooooooooo

Chapter 12: Running on Empty

Monday, June 16, 2008  
7:02 A.M.  
L.A. FBI Field Office

"Good morning, you two." Megan said brightly as she pushed open the door and entered the monitoring room. "How's everybody doing?"

Colby turned towards her in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck. "How can you be so chipper when you just left this place six hours ago?" He held up a hand before she could speak. "Wait, if Fleinhardt had anything to do with it, I don't want to know."

She rolled her eyes and hefted the Starbucks cup in her hands. "No, it's called a venti Americano with five shots. And this _was_ a second one for you, but…" She turned and offered the drink to the room's other occupant. "Agent Javier?"

The other woman was standing in the corner, not looking at the monitors in front of them but staring through the one-way glass at Tom Metzke, seated in an interrogation room with David Sinclair looming over him. "No thanks," she replied quietly.

Megan exchanged a look with Colby, then placed the tall white cup next to his elbow. "Any breaks?" she asked, gesturing at the glass.

Colby shook his head. "We left him alone for a few hours, but that didn't do any good. He's still refusing to say anything without a lawyer present, but he hasn't asked for anyone in particular. You know how it sometimes takes a while to get a message down to the public defender's office?" When she nodded with a smirk, he replied, "Well, we're taking that to new heights."

"We're not going to be able to stall much longer." Javier's voice was as brisk as usual, but she was almost slumping against the back wall, arms folded in front of her. "He's been in custody for thirty-four hours."

Colby began, "If you're trying to get a turn with him—"

"I know it's not proper procedure for me to interrogate a suspect who was on my own team." She pushed away from the wall, eyes flashing. "Believe me, you'd want to do it, too."

She stalked out of the room. Megan looked after her and then back at Colby. "Was she here all night?" she asked quietly.

He shrugged. "Far as I know."

She sighed and snatched the Starbucks cup off the table. "I'll be back."

Megan left the room and looked out over the bullpen, spotting Javier taking a seat at her desk. She walked through the cubicle maze and stopped in front of the other woman. "You sure you don't want this?" she asked, holding up the drink.

She got barely a passing glance in reply. "I'm fine," Javier said tiredly.

"Really." Megan pulled an empty chair over and dropped into it. "Because it looks to me like you could use a break."

"Well, look again." Javier pulled a pile of folders towards her and opened the top one. "There's too much work to be done."

"You're not as effective if you aren't sleeping and eating."

Seemingly ignoring her words, Dina leaned back in her chair. "Chad's been looking into some details of the trial. Did you know that of the twelve people on Eppes' jury, three of them have died in the past seven months?"

Megan's hand flew to her mouth. "Of what?" she asked incredulously.

"Heart attack, accidental overdose of sleeping pills, hit and run. Independently, any of them could be a coincidence, but not all three at once."

She slowly nodded her agreement. "We need to contact the other nine."

"Chad's already working on it." She checked her watch. "Or at least he will be once it's a reasonable hour to go knocking on doors. Everyone he's talked to so far seemed excessively nervous about having an FBI agent show up at their home, and no one's said a word. Then there's their bank records; at least three show evidence of a large deposit sometime last fall, and we haven't finished looking at the rest." She shook her head. "This goes much deeper than Metzke. Someone wanted to make damn sure that Don Eppes was never going to see the light of day."

"And whoever it is, Metzke's scared to death of him."

Javier nodded grimly. "Sinclair and Granger have been trying their hardest to get him to talk, and quite honestly, I don't think I could do any better. I'd probably throttle the bastard anyway."

Megan blinked. "We all feel that way, believe me."

"You have no idea how I feel," Javier said wearily.

She started ticking off points on her fingers. "You're angry; that's understandable. You're feeling betrayed, not only by your team member but by the system that allowed something like this to happen. You're frustrated that you've been used by someone with a horrible agenda, and you're guilty that someone else has had to suffer for it." Dina was staring at her now, and she went on, "You're convinced that working as hard as you can for as long as you can is the only kind of penance you can offer, even though it's not enough to make up for the mistakes you feel you've made."

Javier looked at her for a long time, her golden brown eyes showing a vulnerability that Megan hadn't seen in her before. Then her expression went carefully blank. "I suppose you're going to tell me what I had for breakfast, too, since you're on such a roll," she said in a tone of forced lightness.

"Now that's easy," Megan replied. "You didn't have anything, because you're still in the same clothes you had on yesterday."

The other woman's gaze dropped to the floor, and her shoulders slumped. "I can't stop," she said quietly. "There's too much to do."

She reached out and laid a hand on her upper arm. "You have to rest some time, or you'll be no good to any of us." A stray memory floated to the surface, and an ironic smile came to her lips.

Javier was looking at her curiously. "What is it?"

She shook her head and sat back. "You know, I've said that same exact thing to Don before. You and he are more alike than probably either one of you wants to know."

Dina looked down at her desk. "Do you know that I'd never met him before this? I'd heard of him, of course; I went through Quantico only a couple of years after him, and I heard people talk about both of us in the same breath as 'rising young stars' or something like that." She shook her head. "Same way they talked about Liz."

"He was a very good agent," she said quietly. "So are you."

"And now I've ruined his life," Javier replied simply.

She shook her head. "Not you. Brock and Boudreaux and Metzke and whoever else is behind this thing are the ones who are trying to ruin Don's life. You've been trying to do your job."

"Thank you for saying that, but I did a little digging on my own over the past few days." Javier looked up, her face bleak. "When A.D. Wright was putting together the team to investigate Liz's murder, he asked some of the other Directors for recommendations, since this would be such a high-profile case. It seems my name was suggested by a couple of people who'd never worked with me, but thought I had a good reputation for, what was it, being 'objective' and 'not letting preconceptions get in the way.' One of my strongest advocates, in fact, was Lee Boudreaux."

Megan looked at her with sympathy. "That must have been tough to hear."

Javier's eyes were boring into hers. "It's bad enough to know that what I consider my best investigative skills have been deliberately used against me and someone else. But to know that I was essentially trusted to participate in framing an innocent man because of who I am and how I work…." She let out a sigh and shoved the stack of file folders across her desk so they slid sideways, spreading out over the surface. "You're damn right that it's penance, and that it's not enough."

Megan was silent for a moment. She hadn't expected to feel sympathy towards this woman; at one point in time she would have cheerfully tossed her out of an upper story of the FBI building. But the profiler in her saw just how carefully Dina Javier had been manipulated, and how much that cut into her feelings of self-worth and her consideration of her own abilities. And strategically speaking, she knew that without those abilities, they'd have a lot harder time clearing Don and getting the real guilty parties behind bars.

So she said gently, "Why don't I give you a ride home so you can get some rest? We'll work on Metzke some more, Chad'll continue his interviews, and you'll have a fresh perspective and work more efficiently when you get back."

Javier looked at her narrowly. "Is that the profiler or the five shots of espresso talking?"

She was astonished to feel a grin stretching her mouth. She dropped her eyes, but not before catching a hint of smile on the other woman's face. "It's four hours of sleep talking, actually. Trust me, it makes a world of difference."

"Mmm-hmm," Javier murmured skeptically. But she rose to her feet and lifted a black purse off the floor. "Since you're probably not going to leave me alone until I do…"

Megan stood up as well, but the other woman waved her off. "I can take the Gold Line," she said. "I know you want another crack at Metzke."

_Looks like I'm not the only one who can read minds_. "Sooner or later he's going to tell us something."

Javier's expression was bleak. "I just hope it's not too late when he does."

ooooooooooooooo

Monday, June 23, 2008  
5:55 P.M.  
California State University, Sacramento

Don checked his watch and looked over at the tall concrete building on the other side of the redwood trees, tugging his baseball cap lower over his eyes. Based on the past several days' observations, he was expecting the woman he was waiting for to come out of that building any minute now. It was a short walk across a corner of campus to the parking garage, and this late in the afternoon, after most of the staff and summer students had gone home, there would be few bystanders around. He wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea of approaching a woman in a dark parking garage, especially one who would recognize him on sight, but he didn't have much choice.

He and Billy had brainstormed one last time at the cabin, after Coop persuaded him to stay on a couple of more days, and it was his former partner who had come up with the idea he was now pursuing. Since Don didn't have the resources to pursue either Alex Brock or whoever had ordered the hit on Boudreaux, and since Metzke's capture probably meant the FBI would be working the angle of the corruption crimes, they could think of only one other way in. Billy had pulled in a few favors from former colleagues and gotten the latest FBI scuttlebutt, which said that the jurors from Don's trial were being investigated. They seemed to fall into three categories: those too afraid to talk to the authorities, those with heftier bank accounts than they'd had the previous year, and those who were dead. One of the jurors in the first category had moved away from L.A., and Billy's contact said no one had been up to see her yet. He got her name and address and suggested that if Don went and talked to her, he might find out who had coerced her into keeping quiet and start tracking them down.

Don had been skeptical at first, figuring that this was too big a risk to take. Whatever pressure this woman had been under was unlikely to have gone away, and he might only make things worse by going to see her. But Billy had pointed out that she hadn't gone to the authorities, which meant Don would most likely be safe, and anyway, what other leads did he have? One Greyhound ticket later, he was on his way to Dr. Nicole Scott's new location, and after several days of surveillance, he was confident that this was the best place to approach her.

It felt good to be back in California, even if it was the wrong half of the state. He'd only been up to Sacramento a couple of times before, but it was definitely a different world from L.A. It felt almost like the Midwest with its well-shaded, regular grid of streets and its utterly flat terrain. On the other hand, the Sierra Nevadas barely visible in the distance were pure California, as were the redwood trees dotting the campus where his target worked.

He checked his watch again, then carefully rose as he saw her. _Just like Charlie, working later than all the other professors, even in summer. _She was coming out of the building, juggling a laptop bag, backpack, and purse on her shoulders. She was the same height as he was, with short brown hair and small round glasses that she kept pushing up her nose. He followed several steps behind as she walked past a tennis court and across a short driveway before entering the parking garage.

Don looked carefully around and saw no one else within earshot. _Here goes nothing_, he thought. Quickening his pace and pulling off his baseball cap, feeling completely vulnerable as he did so, he called out, "Dr. Scott?"

The woman turned, hitching her shoulder to keep the small purse from falling off her shoulder. He saw the moment when the recognition hit. Her eyes widened, and she took a step back. The laptop bag slid off her other shoulder, and she barely caught it before it hit the ground. "You…you're…."

He came a couple of steps closer, holding his hands up before his chest. "I just want to talk to you," he said as reassuringly as he could considering the way his heart was pounding. "That's all."

A few heartbeats passed while she stared at him. "How did you find me?" she asked as she took another step back, her eyes darting around.

Don cast a quick glance of his own around the garage before looking back at her. "I had the help of a friend who used to be in the FBI," he said in that same calm tone.

"What do you want?" Dr. Scott spoke quickly, raising a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I need to know what happened at the trial," he said in a low tone, coming forward again. "I need to know who pressured you into returning a guilty verdict."

She shook her head. "I can't."

"Look, you must have seen the papers," he said, not bothering to hide the pleading tone in his voice. "And it hasn't been made public yet, but the FBI knows the jury was pressured one way or another. They're going to come and talk to you if they haven't already. They can protect you, but I need your help now."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and he started to hold his hands up in a beseeching gesture in response to what seemed like her final answer, but she was still speaking. "I'm sorry that I lied. I didn't think you were guilty, but…" Her eyes were wide as she shook her head. "I had no choice."

"Did they threaten all of you?" Tires squealed in the parking garage above them, and he looked around, reminding himself of where and how far away the exits were.

"I don't know." She licked her lips nervously. "No one ever talked to me about it, but I thought that I couldn't be the only one."

"You probably weren't." He tried to sound compassionate rather than urgent as he said, "Three of the jurors have died under mysterious circumstances."

Her hand flew to her mouth as she gasped. "He said we wouldn't be hurt."

_Who, damn it? _Don wanted to demand, but knew that frightening her wouldn't help. "Well, none of them contacted the FBI, which is what you should be doing."

She looked at him for a long moment. Finally she said, "I suppose you're right."

He drew in a long breath, reluctant to ask her again now that he had pointed out how fragile her personal safety might be. But she was speaking again. "Before I do that, though, you asked for my help."

He gave a short nod, his heart still thumping. "You're the only chance I've got at the moment."

Her eyes widened. "All right." Then she tilted her head at the light blue Prius she was standing next to, the same car as Charlie's. "We should go somewhere where it's easier to talk."

He eyed her warily as she opened the trunk and deposited her bags inside. Much as he would like to be somewhere less confined than the parking garage, he wasn't sure that he could trust her not to drive him right to the local FBI office. She must have understood his expression, for she stepped toward him and said in a low voice, "You don't know how much I've regretted saying what I did in the jury room, despite knowing what would happen if I didn't." A shadow of fear crossed her face, and she said, "I know this is too little, and it may be too late, but it's all I can offer you. I swear I'm not going to turn you in."

Don regarded her for a moment, then gave a nod. "All right," he said simply. "Let's go."

oooooooooooooooooo

6:22 P.M.  
L.A. FBI Field Office

"Megan!"

Dina looked up at the same instant that Reeves did, both of them tracking Matt Haskett's lanky frame as he made his way towards their conference room through the darkened bullpen. Her team of six had been released from all other duties to pursue the Eppes case now that it was clear the FBI was entertaining doubts about his conviction. Tom Metzke had gotten his lawyer last week and hadn't said a word since, although she had the feeling that it was fear rather than defiance that was keeping his mouth shut.

She'd dialed back her own efforts after Megan's mother-hen bit, but she still made sure she was the first one in the office and the last one out. She'd missed dinner with her mother and aunt two weeks in a row now, and gotten a stern talking-to for it, but she knew that her family understood what was driving her. It was a matter of penance, yes, but it was also a question of justice: for Liz and for Don. There was still someone out there pulling the strings, someone who had ordered Lee Boudreaux's death and who had a sword over Metzke's head, and they had to find out who it was.

When she'd suggested last week that they start looking into Eppes' old case files in order to see if they could figure out who the missing player was, Reeves had informed her that they had already started doing that. Based on their estimate of how long it would take to put together a scheme that included planning a murder and hiring a well-paid killer to do it, falsifying evidence, covering up old crimes, and getting the right people together to carry out the ensuing investigation, they'd started searching from February 2007 and back. Charlie was mining the data to look for likely suspects, building a list on his laptop in a corner of the conference room as Matt approached.

"What is it?" Reeves asked her junior partner, who was holding out a file folder in his hand.

He addressed both her and Sinclair, seated next to her. "This just came in from the New York office. They uncovered a body in the Hudson River; apparently when it floods, lots of stuff gets stirred up from the bottom." His face took on a slightly greenish tinge as he spoke. "Anyway, the autopsy was finished this morning, and they found a couple of fingerprints on the victim's clothing."

"They hadn't washed away?" Dina asked skeptically.

"She was wrapped up in plastic pretty tight. Coroner said they were amazed it was a two-year-old body for how well it was preserved."

"Whose fingerprints?" Granger asked from where he was standing at the large bulletin board along the wall, looking at a series of photographs of people Don had put in jail but might still have access to the necessary resources.

She knew before the junior agent even said the words. "Alex Brock."

In an instant, Granger was looking over the shoulder of his two teammates as they pored through the report. After a moment, he looked up at her with a threatening expression. "She was killed in late 2005. If this had surfaced a year ago…"

"Things might be a lot different," she replied quietly, regret twisting her gut like it did every time she thought about her refusal to believe that Eppes was right and that Alex Brock had not died in prison in August 2005.

He gave a snort but said nothing.

"Who's the victim?" she asked.

"Her name is Debra Halpin," Matt replied. "She was a witness on a securities fraud case that ended up not going to trial because she and another key witness disappeared. The other one turned up dead in Greece a number of years ago, but Halpin wasn't found until just last week."

"Did you say securities fraud?" Sinclair asked sharply.

The junior agent nodded and pointed at the file. "It's in the back. The guy on trial was—"

David cut him off in a grim, knowing tone of voice. "J. Everett Tuttle."

Reeves drew in a sharp breath and flipped through the remaining pages of the file. "Son of a bitch," she muttered.

The three teammates looked at each other, and Dina could almost see the wheels turning in their heads. Reeves' expression was querying, Sinclair's angrily set, and Granger was nodding, his green eyes dark. Charlie's head had snapped up at the name, and he was looking from one of them to the other, obviously deep in thought. Then he started typing furiously on his keyboard. She cast a questioning glance at Matt, but he looked as confused as she felt. "Who?" she finally asked.

Megan turned back to her and dropped the open file on the table. "It was an election fraud case last March. Tuttle had this whole plan to manipulate the elections in L.A. County and California by messing with the voting machines."

"He had hired a bunch of statisticians and computer programmers who kept mysteriously disappearing," Colby added. "When he knew we were on to him, he blew up a witness right in front of us," he said as he gestured to his partner and himself.

David went on, "Of course, we never had any hard evidence on him, and the guy whose company produced the voting machines took the fall. We never found out what Tuttle had on him, but it must have been something big."

Dina pursed her lips. "I remember seeing that on CNN. Wasn't there some academic article that appeared shortly afterwards that revealed the whole plot and gave the county clerks an idea of what to watch for?"

Megan was nodding at her, her eyebrows raised. "Do you remember who wrote that article?"

Her brow furrowed, then cleared as a head of dark, curly hair looked up at her from across the room. "Oh."

"We should get a protective detail on Charlie," Colby said to his partner.

David shook his head. "If Tuttle wanted to go after him, he'd have had plenty of chances by now. Don is obviously the one he's after."

"Yeah, but what if he thinks he can't get to Don, or what happens once we start pressuring him?" Reeves asked. "Don't you remember me telling you that he sounded like either a self-absorbed Type A or a sociopath? I think it's the latter, and that's the type of person who's going to do whatever he has to in order to eliminate anyone in his way."

"Hello? Am I not right here in this room?" Charlie's voice was more irritated than anything else, although Dina could detect an undercurrent of fear in his tone.

"Charlie, we just want to make sure you're safe," Megan said soothingly.

"You really think that Tuttle is the mastermind behind all this?" Dina leaned forward on her elbows. "That's quite an accusation to make of one of the most successful businessmen in the state who gives millions of dollars to charitable causes every year."

"And who's been investigated at least twelve times for various charges, including murder." Sinclair shook his head at her. "It makes perfect sense."

"Except for your timeline," Matt interjected. "You said this case was from March, right?"

"But a billionaire has a few more resources to draw from than most of the people I've been considering," Charlie replied. "He could accelerate the timetable without a problem."

"He's certainly got the motivation," David said to the mathematician. "Between the two of you, you shut down a pretty major operation. The grand jury might not have indicted him, but he was still left without a thing after all of his planning."

"And it did get personal." Granger was straightening up, a faraway look in his eyes. "I remember Don and I were talking out front when this big black car glided by and Tuttle rolled down the window. The two of them just stared at each other. Man, if looks could kill, they'd both have dropped right there."

She nodded slowly. "The question is, how do we proceed from here?"

Granger and Sinclair were exchanging glances. "We were the ones to interview him last time," the former Army man began, "but I don't think we want to tip him off."

"If it _is_ him," she reminded them.

"You never seemed to worry about 'innocent until proven guilty' before," he retorted bitterly.

She stood abruptly, the chair sliding back with a screech. "Maybe I don't want to make the same mistake twice," she shot back crisply. "Maybe I want to keep multiple avenues open instead of blindly pursuing the most obvious scenario without considering that I might be wrong."

Colby lowered his head. "Sorry," he muttered, briefly meeting her eyes before looking away.

She gave a short nod, then realized everyone else in the room was staring at her. "What?"

Megan cleared her throat. "Charlie, you should keep doing your…." She waved her hand at him. "Your thing. She's right, we should be looking at more than one possible suspect." She looked up at Dina. "Is Chad still in Sacramento?"

She nodded, sinking back into her chair. "He's trying to find that last juror, but she hasn't been answering her phone. I think he was going to try to wait outside her apartment until she came home today." Hopefully Nicole Scott would be more cooperative than any of the silent jurors he'd tried to interview so far. It must be someone pretty powerful to keep such a tight control on them, and it sounded like this Tuttle guy might fit the bill.

"Do you want to keep working on the jury angle, then? The four of us can start looking into Tuttle, since we've already dealt with him. Well, most of us," she amended, shooting Matt an apologetic glance.

"I think you're forgetting something," Charlie said quietly. Their heads all turned towards him. "I was able to verify that no one else in this office had connections to Lee Boudreaux. It'll take me days to do that for Tuttle, probably even longer considering how powerful he is. In the meantime, there's no way to know who in this office might be in his pocket."

A chill went down Dina's spine. He was right. The time it would take to carry out a detailed analysis like Charlie was suggesting was time they didn't have. She said briskly, "Well, I think it's safe to say you can eliminate everyone in this room."

Charlie raised his eyebrows, obviously remembering their confrontational conversation at his house before her trip to Chicago. "That quickly?"

Matt Haskett's voice came hesitantly from her right. "I don't mean to be difficult, but it doesn't make sense for you not to suspect me at least a little. I mean, I don't have any history with Agent Eppes the way everyone else does, and given how close Metzke got…." He trailed off, looking uncertain.

She gave him a tight smile, giving him credit for speaking up and for not stating the obvious—that she had already let one traitor onto her team. "You wouldn't have brought us the information on Brock if you were working with him."

"What if I was trying to throw you off the scent?" he persisted.

Behind him, Colby had slowly and silently risen from his chair and taken two steps towards the junior agent. "You know, he's got a point."

Matt whirled around. Next to him, David was rising from his seat as well, reaching behind him for his handcuffs. "The supply closet, you think?"

"Nah, the janitor'll find him when he starts his nightly rounds," Colby replied easily. "There's probably enough room in the lower cabinets in the break room. He's kinda scrawny."

Matt was backing away, hands raised in front of him. "Look, I was just trying to make a point," he said, his voice steady as his eyes tracked the two men moving towards him. "I didn't even know who this Tuttle guy was until ten minutes ago."

Dina paused for a moment, uncertain, but then she noticed the smirk forming on Megan's face. "All right, you two, that's enough," she said.

The three men turned towards her, Colby and David with matching expressions of disappointment, Matt's face alight with relief. Colby clapped the younger man on the shoulder and said, "You gotta watch out for David, man. He'll take you for a ride without you even knowing it."

"Excuse me?" David started, but she cut him off. "Gentlemen? We have work to do."

They both nodded and sat back down at the table, already focusing on the task at hand. She felt like a schoolteacher reprimanding them for talking in class, but Megan caught her eye and gave her a knowing, rueful smile. _You gotta know how to handle them_, she seemed to be saying. _But you're doing fine_.

She just hoped it was enough.

oooooooooooooooooo

A/N: Cookies to Alice and shaolingrrl for figuring it out in advance!


	25. 12b: Running on Empty

A/N: Thanks for all of your reviews! I tell you, I will be really surprised if Tuttle doesn't reappear on the show at some point. If they're ever going to bring back a bad guy, he's the obvious choice, between the fact that he didn't get caught and the personal challenge that Don issued to him. Just remember—you read it here first. :)

Disclaimer and thanks in the prologue.

Oh, and this is your reminder to make sure your seat belts are fastened and to keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times. (return of the evil grin)

oooooooooooooooooo

7:05 P.M.  
American River Parkway, Sacramento, CA

Half an hour later, Don found himself walking alongside Nicole Scott on a paved bicycle path that curved between the river and an expanse of tall grasses waving gently in the breeze. He was amazed at how quiet it was, considering they were literally in the middle of the city. She explained that the river's wide floodplain left a large area off-limits to development, but the bicycle path still allowed people to access the area for recreation. She also explained that the flat terrain and lack of buildings meant there was good visibility for quite a distance in either direction, leaving it unspoken as to why he might appreciate that.

They passed a picnic table tucked between the trail and the riverbank, and she gestured towards it. They sat down on opposite sides, her with her back to the trail, leaving him with a full view of anyone approaching in either direction. She tucked her hair behind her ears and said, "So, where should I start?"

Don tried to pretend he was interviewing a regular witness in a case that was happening to someone else, not the person who quite possibly held the key to unraveling the nightmare his life had become. He said in a level tone, "I suppose you should start with how you were approached, and by whom."

She told him the story of a vaguely menacing man who'd come up to her in the hotel where the jury was sequestered, telling her that Don Eppes was guilty and trusting that she would agree. She said he didn't make any specific threats, but that a week later, when the prosecution had finished their case, the same guy was waiting in her hotel room and told her the same thing.

Don couldn't bring himself to ask the obvious follow-up question, but she answered it for him when she dropped her eyes and said quietly, "At that point, I didn't exactly disagree with him."

"Hell, _I_ thought I was guilty after listening to the prosecution," he muttered.

She gave a wan smile before her face turned serious again. "I told him to get out or I'd call the police. Then he, um, he said that if I talked to the police or anyone else, I'd regret it."

"And you didn't tell anyone?"

She looked at him. "We were sequestered in a hotel. We had marshals escorting us to the courthouse everyday. If he could get into my hotel room, yeah, I believed that he could get to me anywhere."

"It must have been hard to have your life threatened like that," he said automatically. With any other witness, he would have sympathized with her. But he couldn't bring himself to tell her that it was okay, that he understood the choice she made, when it had shattered his entire life.

"You don't understand." She looked up, and he saw the trace of remembered fear in her blue eyes. "We were halfway through the first day of deliberations, and I got an emergency phone call. My mother had been in a car accident. She lives in Denver, Mr. Eppes. The police said it looked like a deliberate hit and run, but they couldn't figure out why anyone would want to hurt her."

"Was she okay?" he asked with concern.

"She walks with a cane now, but other than that, yeah." She looked down at the tabletop and picked at a splinter of grey wood. "He was waiting in my room again that night. He said that left one parent and myself." She paused for a moment, her voice dwindling away to almost nothing. "The next day, I stopped objecting to the jurors who wanted a guilty plea."

Don looked away. That, he could sympathize with. It was one thing to have his own safety threatened, but if Alan or Charlie were in danger, he'd do whatever it took to protect them. He looked at the woman across from him, her shoulders bowed and her head down. "I don't blame you," he said gently. "I would give up my life if it meant keeping my family safe."

"But would you give up someone else's life?" she asked bleakly.

He sighed. "Look, Nicole, you have the chance to make it right. Go to the FBI and tell them what you just told me. They can protect you and your family, and your description of the man who threatened you can help as well."

She blinked a couple of times. "I don't know his name," she said, "but that last time he threatened me…my room was next to the stairwell, and he must have made a phone call as soon as he left, because I could hear his voice through the wall for at least the first couple of sentences." Her eyebrows knitted together as she tried to recall what she had heard. "He was greeting a Mr….Turtle? Tuttle?"

Don knew his face must be turning pale as a sheet. His hands grasped the edge of the picnic table as if to anchor himself. "Are you sure?" he demanded.

She looked frightened at his reaction. "I—I think so."

He stared at her for a moment, then closed his eyes, anger and despair and self-hatred washing over him as the pieces all fit into place. Tuttle. The man who'd come so close to getting away with election fraud on a colossal scale, and who _had_ gotten away with murder, multiple times. The man he'd gone to in person to deliberately warn him that he was going to "get him."

He felt sick. _At least he went after you rather than Charlie_, some small part of him thought, but he still felt ill. He'd gotten up into the guy's face, literally, like he'd rarely done with a suspect, certainly like he'd never done since he'd been charge of his own team. It had been an arrogant, rookie kind of thing to do, and he'd known he had made an enemy doing it.

He just hadn't realized how bad of an enemy he'd made.

"Are you okay?" Nicole was asking.

He opened his eyes and shook his head. "Yeah, I'm fine. Listen, do you have something to write with?"

She pulled out a pen and notepad from her purse, and he carefully wrote down the L.A. field office number. "Call them and ask for Agent Geraldina Javier. She'll probably tell you to go to the Sacramento office, but she needs to know this _now_."

Nicole was giving him a strange look. "Isn't she…"

He grimaced. "Yeah, I guess she's the Gerard to my Kimble. But she knows what she's doing, and she can help you."

She nodded and tucked the paper away in her purse. "I'll do that," she said quietly.

They walked back along the bike path in silence, Don lost in thought about Tuttle, fitting together the pieces of what he remembered about the man with what had happened to him over the past year. Hadn't Megan called him a "spooky guy" who could "mastermind a conspiracy"? The more he thought about it, the more it made perfect sense.

He fingered the outline of the cell phone Coop had given him, still in his pocket. As soon as he saw Dr. Scott safely back to her car, he was calling Megan and telling her what he'd found out. And getting some protection for Charlie. Tuttle had every reason to want to hurt him, too.

They rounded a bend in the path and saw the small parking area where Nicole had left her Prius. There was one vehicle parked next to it with someone sitting inside. As Don strained to see over the remaining distance, the person climbed out of the car and looked towards them over the few hundred yards that separated them.

Don stopped dead in his tracks. There was nowhere to hide on either side of the trail; the river was to their left and a grassy field was to their right. Nicole had noticed him stop, and she asked, "What is it?"

"That number I told you to call?" When she nodded, he went on in a tight tone of voice, "You won't need to. That's Javier's partner right there."

She gasped, and Don looked up to see Chad Danvers shutting his car door and starting towards them. He looked back over his shoulder. Wherever the path led, he was going to have to take it. "Get in your car and lock the doors. When he gets back, tell him who you are and what you told me, okay?"

"What about you?"

He quirked the corner of his mouth up. "I've got to run."

He whirled around and started sprinting, not surprised to hear a "Hey!" from behind him. The path was completely flat and level here along the top of the river levee, and even though he was a little tired, he was a fast runner and had a good head start. All he had to do was stay ahead of this guy long enough to get off the path and lose him on the city streets, and he'd be fine.

Don glanced over his shoulder after several seconds and was alarmed to see that Danvers had narrowed the distance between them. He concentrated on running faster, tearing past a young couple out for a walk and a middle-aged man out jogging. He checked his pursuer again. No closer, but no farther away, either. He was already starting to gasp for air, and he had a long way to go. His right ankle was starting to bother him again, but he grimly ignored it.

A memory flashed into his head from a couple of years ago, and he groaned aloud. Agent Danvers had been publicly congratulated by Assistant Director Merrick for finishing in the top twenty-five percent of those who ran that year's Los Angeles Marathon. There had been plenty of jokes and teasing about how Danvers had better always catch the suspect he was chasing with a record like that.

All of a sudden, the jokes weren't very funny.

To his left, a street dead-ended at the trail, and he raced down the slope of the levee and onto the hard asphalt. He pelted down the block past offices and stores closed for the night, periodically casting glances behind him and noting that he was again keeping his distance, but not increasing it. The small street he was on abruptly ended at a major cross-street, and he swerved to the right to run alongside it. He thought for a moment about the last pursuit he'd been in. Colby was fast, but not as fast as this guy. He was going to have to do something to shake him.

Don looked at the road he was running next to and carefully gauged the mid-block traffic. He'd done this once before, but it was around a rotary in Washington, DC, where the traffic was only going about twenty miles an hour and all in one direction. Here, there were three lanes in each direction, and the cars had to be doing at least forty. If one of them hit him, being caught by the FBI would be pretty much irrelevant.

He cast a glance over his shoulder again and saw Danvers rounding the corner behind him. There was no time left to debate it with himself. Sending up a quick prayer to whomever might be listening, he judged the speed of the cars and dove right in.

The flurry of horns and squealing of brakes was deafening, but he wove his way between the moving cars and reached the safety of the median without incident. There was a lull in the other lanes, but down the block, he could see that the light had just changed and three lanes of vehicles were peeling away from the stoplight. He reached deep down for just a little more speed and sprinted across the asphalt, the ache in his ankle becoming more pronounced with every jarring step against the pavement. But it held, and he dashed onto the sidewalk, gratefully heaving gulps of air as the cars whooshed by behind him.

Then there was another wave of brakes squealing. He spun around and saw that Danvers was holding out his badge and stopping traffic, already almost to the median and eyeing him determinedly. Don started racing down the sidewalk, dodging the cars pulling in and out of the fast food restaurants that lined the street. There was a major intersection coming up, and the traffic on his street was just getting the green arrow. He pushed himself a little harder so that he could make it across on the coming green light, and he succeeded, stumbling only a little towards the end.

A quick glance back showed him that Chad had been stopped at the light, watching in frustration as three lanes of cars started past him. Don turned and doggedly kept going, running along an asphalt pathway that led up onto a bridge across the river. On the left, he could see the university campus again, and he thought for a moment about trying to hide in there. Then he nixed the idea. Too many buildings were likely to be locked this time of night, and there would be too many bystanders if Danvers drew his gun. So he kept limping along the main road, drawing on his mental map to tell him how far away he was from his exit routes out of the city.

After at least ten minutes of jogging, looking back over his shoulder periodically and seeing no one, he thought he'd lost Danvers. He dropped onto a bench at a bus stop, keeping a wary eye out in the direction he'd come from, his lungs burning and his ankle aching. The evening was surprisingly cool now that the sun was going down, and he shivered as the sweat on his back began to evaporate. He leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, and waited until his breathing had calmed down to normal, wiping the sweat off his face with the bottom of his t-shirt.

He heard a city bus coming and looked up. The message sign said it was heading downtown, which would get him to the Greyhound station. Hopefully, Danvers would be heading back to secure the witness before continuing his pursuit. Still, he'd have to be careful in case the police had already been alerted.

Fifteen minutes later, he disembarked, slightly favoring his right ankle. He stopped within sight of the station and watched for a few minutes. There were no patrol cars or other sign of increased police presence, and he finally got up the nerve to go inside and purchase a ticket for the next bus out: destination San Francisco. He slipped back outside to wait for fifteen minutes until the bus was due. A block down the street, he sat down on the concrete edge of a flower bed and kept a careful eye on the station.

After a few minutes, a bus pulled into the lot with a "San Francisco" sign, and he took a deep breath. Checking his watch, he saw that there were only ten minutes left. A handful of people climbed off the bus, and many more started streaming on. He grimaced. If the bus got too full and he couldn't get a seat, he'd be stranded. But getting on too early would make him a sitting duck if the police or Danvers came by. Another five minutes should be about right.

He was so focused on the people climbing on the bus and the general activity around the station that he barely registered a car door slamming across the street. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a man in a green jacket crossing the street, probably going to meet someone arriving at the station. Then he belatedly realized he wasn't walking at an angle towards the station; he was walking towards him.

He looked up, and his heart plummeted. The man striding towards him was Alex Brock.

In a flash, he was on his feet, running away from the station and the hired killer. He heard pounding feet behind him and tried to sprint faster, but his endurance had been used up outrunning Danvers. He swerved into an alley and grabbed a garbage can, dumping it across the path behind him. A quick look back told him that Brock was easily hurdling it, then reaching underneath his jacket.

He raced down the alley, the sidewalk at the other end in sight, swerving to the side in case Brock fired. With the sidewalk only fifty yards away, he dodged to the right one more time, and the ankle that had nearly cost him his life in front of a train in Indiana gave way once more. He went crashing to the ground, his hands skidding on the gravel surface, his left knee cracking against a piece of concrete beneath the gravel. He rolled over and tried to ignore the pain in order to get up again.

Then something struck him hard in the ribs, and he fell back with a groan. Lying on his back, he saw Brock standing over him, a malevolent smile on his face. "Get up," he demanded, the Glock in his hand pointed unwaveringly between Don's eyes.

He lay there for a moment, his chest heaving, looking up into the barrel of the weapon and wondering darkly why the other man hadn't already pulled the trigger. "Get up," Brock repeated, punctuating his remarks with another kick to his ribs. Slowly, painfully, Don levered himself to his feet. His hands were cut and scraped, his knee and ankle were throbbing, and his ribs ached, but he could still stand upright. Anything beyond that, like getting the gun out of the other man's hand, was a lost cause.

Brock shoved the gun in his back and forced him back up the alley. He had a sudden vision of another alleyway with another killer behind him, and he hoped for a moment that Danvers would find him after all and perform another unexpected rescue. But no one else entered the alley, no one gave them any notice on the sidewalk, and as they approached the grey car Brock had gotten out of minutes before, no one was visible in either direction. It was a government town, after all, and on a Monday night the streets were empty. Don looked down the block to see the bus to San Francisco pulling out of the station, taking what felt like his last hope with it.

They reached the trunk of the car, and Brock turned the key in the lock. Don suddenly felt cold chills down his spine. It was much easier for Brock to transport him out of the alley on his own two feet than as dead weight, as it were. But now that they were here—he'd been at too many crime scenes that consisted of the trunk of a car with a body inside not to know what was coming.

With nothing left to lose, he whirled around, desperately reaching for the gun that had been at his back. But it wasn't there anymore, and the unexpected momentum carried him sideways into the back of the car. He staggered a little, putting his hands against the taillight to steady himself.

It left him completely defenseless for what happened next.

His hand on the barrel of the gun, not the trigger, Brock brought the weapon swiftly downwards. Don caught one last glimpse of the man's malicious expression before his head exploded in pain and he fell backwards into darkness.

ooooooooooooooooo

A few minutes later, a grey sedan pulled over to the side of the road in an industrial area not far from the bus station. Alex Brock climbed out and opened the trunk, pulling on a pair of latex gloves before reaching in to maneuver the body inside. When he was done, he removed the gloves, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed a number.

"You have news?"

He looked down at the unconscious fugitive, now bound and gagged and curled up inside the trunk. The overhead streetlight reflected off Eppes' pale face, marred by a purplish bruise forming just above his temple. "I got him," he said in a tone of satisfaction.

"That's good." Tuttle's voice was pleased, if not surprised. "Was he talking to her?"

"Don't know. I was right that he was gonna come here, though; I was staking out the Greyhound station when I saw him waiting for a bus. He was too tired to put up much of a fight. I think maybe he'd already been running, 'cause there were cops starting to show up at the station when I left."

"Careful, Alex."

"Damn it, I know how to be careful," he snapped back, aware that he was one of the few people who could talk to his employer like this and get away with it. "Should I go back for the Scott chick?"

"No, she's no longer relevant. Even if she talks to the FBI, it'll be too late for Eppes, assuming you stay on schedule."

"Well, it's six hours staying under the speed limit, plus I gotta let him out for air a couple of times. I'll be there by morning, and then I can get the other one."

"You know where to go," Tuttle replied.

"Yep. I'll call you when it's done."

"No, actually I'd like to be there myself."

Brock raised his eyebrows. "Now who's not being careful?"

The other man's tone turned hard. "I have lost far too much to these two. I'm going to be there to watch them die."

"Suit yourself," Brock shrugged, closing the lid on the unconscious man. "I'll let you know when I'm ready."

"All right."

He flipped the phone shut and climbed in the car. Several hours of travel, another day or so of preparation, and this would be all over with. He'd be retiring out of the country, permanently outside the reach of the law, and Don Eppes would go down as the fugitive who'd finally lost it.

And lost—for good.

ooooooooooooooooooo

A/N: Yikes! Hope I didn't lose anybody on that sharp curve at the end…


	26. 13a: Road to Perdition

A/N: Disclaimer and regular acknowledgments are in the prologue. Bonus thanks to rittenden for helping out with the logistics of whumping in this chapter and the next one (now there's a spoiler). Thanks to the FBI and DHS for not flagging my e-mail to her consisting of the question, "Can you give me a range for how long I can expect Don to be unconscious in that trunk?" Also, thanks to Lisa Paris for permission to use a line of hers; she probably didn't envision it being appropriated quite like this when she commented back in Chapter 4…

ooooooooooooooooo

Chapter 13: Road to Perdition

Time unknown  
Location unknown

It was getting harder and harder to breathe. Don had been awake for what seemed like hours but was probably only thirty or forty minutes, jouncing along in the trunk at a pretty high and constant rate of speed that indicated they were on a major highway, the gag in his mouth reducing the air supply that was already limited by the closed trunk. At first, he had struggled with the restraints on his wrists, but once he managed to get a finger on the material, he felt it to be smooth and solid with a small knob sticking out. _Great_, he thought. Not tape or rope that he could hope to fray through, not handcuffs that he might be able to pick, but the plastic ties that the police used because they were much more difficult to break out of.

Then he'd realized that the more he struggled, the faster he was going to use up whatever air he did have, so he laid as still as possible, using the time to catalogue his injuries. His sore head, ribs, and knee came from Brock's assault; he remembered that all too clearly. His legs were killing him: he'd been running as hard as he could for close to half an hour, and then he'd been promptly crammed in the trunk, leaving his limbs sore and stiff. His shoulders were growing sore from having his arms restrained behind him, but the only thing he could do to alleviate that would be to roll onto his stomach, which wasn't possible with his legs curled up in front of him like they were.

He took a few more shallow breaths, feeling his bruised ribs expand and contract. Unlike the man Javier had saved him from back in Chicago, Brock apparently wanted him alive for some reason, or he would have shot him as soon as he had him in the alley. Brock had to realize that his captive couldn't travel indefinitely without air, but aside from banging on the inside of the trunk, which he'd already tried a couple of times, there wasn't much he could do.

About ten more minutes passed before the car began to slow and move up an incline, as if they were exiting a freeway. They turned, went for another minute or so until he heard the crunch of gravel under the tires, and then the car stopped.

Don knew that he wouldn't be given any kind of opportunity for escape once the trunk lid opened, trussed up and sore as he was. And sure enough, when the lid popped up, he instantly saw a dark silhouette looming over him. He took in the latex gloves on the killer's hands, and his stomach dropped. As far as he could figure, the reason for that was to avoid leaving fingerprints for the authorities to find. Brock apparently wasn't worried about his car being discovered, given that he wasn't showing any concern about the traces of hair or blood Don might be leaving in the trunk. What he was worried about, apparently, was leaving any traces of evidence on Don himself. _Not a promising thought_.

He stayed completely still while Brock leaned forward and pressed the muzzle of the gun against his forehead before pulling the gag away from his mouth. Then he heaved in gulps of air, any pride that he might have wanted to retain withering in the face of needing to increase the flow of oxygen to his lungs.

Behind his captor, he could see part of the landscape lit by the gibbous moon hanging high in the sky. Golden, grassy hills sloped up on the right and a green patchwork stretched away to the left. He could vaguely hear traffic noise, and then he realized what the dark stripe down the middle of the scenery was. It was Interstate 5, somewhere south of the Bay Area, where the edge of the San Joaquin Valley met the Coast Range and the only people around were those passing through. There was no way of knowing exactly where they were—the scenery was the same for hundreds of miles—but this was the main road to L.A., so he had to assume that was where they were headed.

His breathing was starting to slow down to normal. With the moon behind the other man, Don couldn't see his face, but he was painfully aware that his own expressions would be all too visible. It was a struggle to keep his face free of the emotions he was feeling and to keep from showing any weakness, although his physical helplessness made it all too apparent who had the upper hand here. Brock's hand moved towards the gag, and Don pulled his head back. "You don't have to do that," he said, hating the note of panic that crept into his voice. "It's not like anyone can hear me calling from the trunk of a car at seventy miles an hour."

The only response he got was the material being tugged back up into place, cutting into the sides of his mouth. He glared at his captor as fiercely as he could as the lid closed, sealing him in once again. Then he dropped his head back against the floor and sighed. If Charlie were here, he could tell him exactly how many cubic inches of air there were and at what breathing rate he would use it all up.

All things considered, he was extraordinarily grateful that Charlie wasn't here.

As soon as the car started moving, so did he. He struggled to fold his legs up even more tightly than they already were, wincing as his sore knee connected with the latch of the trunk. Then he began the arduous process of bringing his arms around to the front of his body, grunting with effort as he scraped first one foot and then the other past his wrists. When he had his hands in front of him, his wrists cut and sore from the plastic tie digging into them, he yanked the gag from his mouth and laid back, panting, eyes closed against the darkness around him. He might have used up more air than he would have by lying still, but the trunk wasn't completely airtight, and now he could breathe more freely. Besides, this way he didn't feel quite so damn helpless.

Still, he must have passed out, because the next thing he knew, the trunk lid was open and Brock was tugging at the tie around his wrists to check that it was still tight, the gun in his other gloved hand once again jabbing Don's forehead. For a split second, he thought he could move quickly enough to make a grab for the gun, but then Brock's narrow eyes flickered to his face and he noticed that Don was awake. He glowered for a moment, then stepped back, keeping the Glock aimed at him.

Don lifted his head to see much the same view as before, except that now there were mountains running perpendicular to the range behind them. _The Grapevine_, he thought. They were nearly to the four-thousand-foot climb out of the San Joaquin Valley, up and over into the L.A. Basin. There were probably another couple of hours to go, which meant he wasn't going to get another chance at breathing the outside air before they got wherever it was they were going.

"Where are you taking me?" he croaked, his throat so dry it ached.

Brock looked at him for a moment. The moon had passed through about a quarter of the sky and it now lit his profile, accentuating his hawk-like nose even further. "Wouldn't you like to know," he sneered.

_That's why I asked the question, dumbass,_ Don thought but didn't voice. He opened his mouth to say something else, then stopped. He figured that he was being carted along here at J. Everett Tuttle's request, but it might be to his advantage if they didn't know that he knew that. How it might be to his advantage, he didn't know, but he was holding on to every slim scrap that he could at this point. So he pressed his lips together and dropped his head back down, the picture of defeat. Brock slammed the trunk closed, and he lay there, staring up at the lid less than a foot from his face, feeling every ache in his body as he considered the (limited) possibilities he had to work with.

He felt at his pockets and wasn't surprised to find that the cell phone Cooper had given him was no longer there. At this point, he would take calling the authorities and putting himself in their hands over whatever it was Brock had in store for him. But as the car accelerated back onto the freeway, he understood that however he was going to get himself out of this, it was going to have to be on his own.

oooooooooooooo

Tuesday, June 24, 2008  
8:05 A.M.  
L.A. FBI Field Office

"Hey, Dina, has there been any more word from Chad?" Megan stopped at the edge of Javier's cubicle and took a sip of coffee from the mug she held.

The other woman looked up from her desk. "Not in the last hour. He's been talking to Nicole Scott, but she hasn't added anything beyond confirming that Tuttle was the name she heard on the phone."

"And nothing on Don?"

Dina shook her head. "The Sacramento office got Greyhound to verify that he bought a ticket last night to San Francisco, but he never got on that bus or any other one as far as they know."

"He must have been setting a distraction," she mused.

"It's strange, though," Dina replied. "He would know that we can verify quickly enough whether or not he was on the bus."

She frowned in agreement. Then she hefted a pile of records in her hand and said, "We've got a phone call from Metzke to Tuttle's private number on the last day anyone saw him here at the office. So there is a connection between the two of them."

"Metzke still isn't talking, though, is he?"

She shook her head, lips pressed together. "Not a word."

Dina sighed and tapped her fist against the top of her desk. "What are Sinclair and Granger working on?" she asked.

She looked over at the glass-walled conference room, where the table was piled high with file boxes and folders, and lowered her voice. "They're digging up data for Charlie so he can establish a connection between you-know-who and anyone else at the office, although if anyone asks, it's Brock they're looking into."

"I need at least one of them on something else," Dina said.

Megan narrowed her eyes. "I thought we agreed on what our top priority was."

"I've been thinking." Dina took off her reading glasses. "We've confirmed that Alex Brock is alive, right? But we still have no evidence that he was anywhere near Liz Warner's apartment."

"Aside from Don's testimony," she replied sharply.

"Well, he's kind of hard to get a hold of right now," Dina retorted. "And that doesn't change the fact that the only forensic evidence we have from the scene are Don's fingerprints and hair. No one else's." She held out a hand, and Megan repressed the angry reply that was ready to spring to her lips. "I _don't_ think he killed Liz. You know that. But right now, we have absolutely no crime scene evidence that says otherwise."

She stepped across the cubicle and dropped into the chair at the desk that used to be Tom Metzke's. "So what are you saying?" she asked, softening her tone.

"I'm saying that there had to have been other evidence out there. Even a highly skilled killer like Brock isn't a ghost. If he was in that apartment, he left a trace."

"It's been almost a year," she replied skeptically.

Dina shook her head. "I'm not suggesting we go back to the crime scene. I'm suggesting we follow the chain of evidence." She nodded at the empty desk behind Megan. "Metzke was the one who took care of delivering most of the evidence to the crime lab. Someone needs to check and see if any of it disappeared along the way."

"Yeah, but you would think that one of the techs would have mentioned something. It was such a big part of the prosecution's case that _all_ the forensic evidence pointed to Don. One of them would have brought it up, at least to the three of us, if there was anything else that didn't show up at the trial."

The older woman frowned. "Unless one of them was part of it, too."

She groaned, not wanting to think about what that meant. "I'll have Charlie start his analysis with the lab techs who were here last fall," she said, rising to her feet.

"That would be good," Dina replied. "Chad's flying back in this morning; he and I will have to sit down and try to remember exactly who took charge of what evidence. Maybe one of us will remember something that Metzke couldn't hide."

"We could always ask Metzke," she said, making a face to indicate she didn't think that was likely to be successful.

"Yeah, and pigs might fly past the windows," Dina muttered.

Her lips pressed together to hide a smile. "Right. Charlie's more likely to come up with results we can use."

She had taken a couple of steps when Javier said in a slightly different tone, "Megan?"

Turning to look at the other woman, she saw her tapping her reading glasses on the top of her desk and looking almost nervous. "What is it?"

Dina drew in a breath and looked up at her. "I want to thank you," she said quietly.

She cocked her head to the side. "For what?"

The glasses tapped another couple of times and then stopped. "When A.D. Wright told me ten days ago to choose whomever I wanted to work with on clearing Eppes, I didn't think twice about the three of you. I knew you would put the most effort into it of anyone in the office, and I knew that you were owed the opportunity."

_Damn straight_, she thought, but didn't voice it.

"I didn't doubt that you would all be professional about working with me, at least on the surface, but you've surpassed my expectations." A wry smile twisted her lips. "Let's face it, none of you could have been thrilled about being under the authority of the evil bitch who'd been hunting down your boss and your friend. Especially you, being pulled away from leading your own team. And yet you've put aside whatever feelings you might have and gone on with the work and cooperated as if I were any other supervisor. That's probably more than I could do in the same situation."

Megan paused, resting one hand on top of the cubicle wall. "I never thought you were an 'evil bitch' per se," she said, choosing her words carefully. "Just…that your head was kinda stuck in the sand."

"Or some other place where it's too dark to see," Dina said, lifting an eyebrow.

This time, she didn't suppress the grin that sprang to her lips, and was rewarded with a full-blown smile from the other woman. _I think that's the first time I've seen her smile_, she suddenly thought.

"Look," she said, "it took a lot of guts to stand up and admit that you were wrong like you did, not just to us, but to the A.D. and to the media. And you've been putting in as much effort as we have to clear Don, more even. We can't help but respect that."

A thought suddenly struck her. She'd been in the FBI far too long not to notice that when two women in positions of authority came into conflict, it was often a more spectacular clash than any other combination of genders. There might be more women in law enforcement than there used to be, but there was still a glass ceiling within the Bureau, and some women felt that if they'd fought their way through it, part of protecting their position was making sure that no one else followed too closely behind. The "old girls' network" was still too precarious to rely on, and Megan wondered if that might not have been another reason for Boudreaux to put Javier's name forward: counting on the two of them to butt heads and thus keeping Javier farther away from uncovering the truth.

"What is it?" Dina was asking.

Megan shook her head. The other agent already felt manipulated enough by the machinations that had gone on to bring her into this case. There was no need to make it worse. "Nothing," she said. "I'll go and redirect Charlie. We'll check back in with you in a couple of hours."

Dina waved her off, already returning to her computer screen. Megan looked at her for a moment and then went off, thinking about how dramatically things had changed in just a few weeks. It gave her hope that they were going to get Don out of this mess and get the guilty parties to be held accountable. If she and Javier could act friendly towards one another, who knew what other kinds of miracles were waiting to happen?

ooooooooooooooooo

8:53 A.M.  
Location unknown

By Don's watch, he had been curled up in the trunk for over ten hours now, and he was getting worried about being able to move if and when he was let out. After arriving in metro L.A. early in the morning, judging by the increased traffic noise and the slower speed of the vehicle, they'd been sitting on a street somewhere for the past two hours or so. Brock had cracked the trunk open once, keeping a hand on top of it so that it was barely open, but it was enough for Don to get a glimpse of a residential neighborhood that could have been anywhere in Southern California: Spanish-style stuccoed houses mixed with Craftsman bungalows, the front yards studded with silver-green agave plants and the exterior walls draped with bright magenta and orange bougainvillea. It looked like a reasonably well-off neighborhood, not the kind of place you would expect any of the cars parked on the street to have someone tied up in the trunk.

Finally, the car started up and drove a block or two before pulling into a driveway. Don heard a garage door going up, and then the car moved forward, followed by the grinding sound of the door shutting behind them. In another few seconds, the trunk popped open and Brock was looming over him once again. "End of the line," he said mockingly.

He started to sit up, but Brock shoved him back down with a gloved hand. He kept the gun pointed at him with his right hand while his left hand pulled a switchblade out of his pocket and flicked it open. The knife sliced easily through the plastic tie around Don's wrists, leaving little doubt as to its sharpness. Then, before Don could move to stretch his cramped limbs, Brock leaned forward with a malicious smirk and laid the edge of the blade right along his throat.

Don held as still as he could, although his chest started rising and falling faster. He forced himself to stay calm, knowing that he wouldn't have been transported all the way here just to be killed now. Brock was terrorizing him, and Don wasn't going to give in. He let the hatred he felt for this man who had taken so much away from him expand until it pushed aside the fear, and he glared back, bolstered by all of that hatred and anger. He might have been physically helpless, but he wasn't going to give the other man the satisfaction of seeing anything but strength in his expression.

After a long moment, Brock flicked his thumb on the knife, retracting the blade. He glowered at Don, obviously not having gotten the reaction he was counting on. He backed away and raised the gun in his other hand. "Get out."

Hoping his limbs would obey him, and resisting the urge to reach up and make sure the skin on his neck was intact, Don slowly swung his legs over the edge of the trunk. He rubbed at his wrists, but stopped when the torn flesh was more painful to the touch than the sore muscles and joints. He flexed his ankles, wincing at the stiffness of his calves. While moving as slowly as he thought he could get away with, he surreptitiously looked around. He didn't see much. The garage door was closed, and only a green touring bicycle and a pile of emptied, flattened cardboard boxes adorned the bare concrete floor.

"Move it," Brock growled.

Don put his hands on the edge of the trunk and gingerly levered himself onto the ground, glad that his legs held his weight after hours of being folded up, although his right ankle was shooting out darts of pain. Brock slammed the trunk shut and gestured towards a stairway in the corner of the garage. "Let's go."

He plodded up the stairs with barely the strength to keep moving forward, much less to try and do anything to the man behind him. The few hours of unconsciousness he'd passed in the trunk didn't exactly count as sleep. Add to that his cramped muscles and the headache that still lingered from being knocked out, and he had to lean heavily on the railing to make his way up the stairs.

At the top of the flight of stairs, he saw a large dining room with a cheerful kitchen behind it. Don paused, one hand still on the railing. This was someone's house. The stack of mail on the table and the breakfast dishes sitting in the sink indicated that there was a current occupant, although the minimal amount of furniture and the empty boxes in the garage meant they probably hadn't been there long. There were sliding glass doors off of the dining room that looked out onto a hillside rising steeply behind the house, the slope lush with vegetation. He caught a whiff of jasmine through the open glass door, the scent sending a wave of homesickness through him. _That's what Pasadena smells like on summer nights_, he thought. _I thought I'd never get to smell that again_.

He turned to look towards the living room but stopped as he felt a jab in his back. "Keep going," Brock snapped, cutting off his thoughts.

There was another flight of stairs around to the right, and he was marched up those as well, then down a short hallway and into a darkened room with what looked like a newly-installed padlock on the door. The room was empty except for a bare futon on the floor. Brock gave him a shove from behind, overbalancing him and sending him stumbling forward. His slightly-swollen knee hit the floor just short of the futon, and he bit back a groan. His hands had come out automatically to stop his fall, but his arms collapsed as Brock pushed him down onto the mattress before yanking his hands behind him.

_Not again_, he thought, struggling in the other man's grip but soon realizing that it was useless. Brock might have been driving all night, but he was still more alert and in better condition than Don. And he had a gun. Don soon found himself with his hands bound behind him once more, the plastic tie even tighter this time. Brock flipped him over onto his back and stood up, sneering down at him. "Don't worry," he said as he backed towards the door. "You won't be alone for long." He left the room and pulled the door shut. There was the sound of the padlock slamming shut, then footsteps retreating down the hall, and then silence.

Don leaned his head back and marshaled what little strength he had left. Brock's last threat was reverberating in his head, and he was worried sick about what it meant. He was obviously tying up loose ends, probably at Tuttle's behest, and Don could think of one other person the billionaire would want to have revenge on. After all, Don had only pursued a case against him; it was Charlie who had actually shot down his scheme for controlling the elections. And why else would Don have been brought all the way back to Los Angeles if not to be "reunited" with his brother?

Desperation fueled his slow, stiff movements as he struggled to once again bring his hands around to his front. Once he got that accomplished, his next task would be to look around the room and find something sharp to cut his bonds. After that, he would have to find a way out of here. He'd gotten out of some pretty tight situations over the past few months. Now, when it mattered more than ever, he'd have to find a way out of here as well. No matter what it took.

oooooooooooooooooo

A/N: Go ahead, keep speculating. It amuses me. :)


	27. 13b: Road to Perdition

A/N: Okay, okay, I won't ask for speculation again if it means the reviews are going to drop off like that. Just keep hanging on tight…

Disclaimer and acknowledgments are, believe it or not, still in the prologue.

oooooooooooooooo

6:52 P.M.  
Pasadena Freeway

Dina automatically steered across four lanes of traffic, switching from the far left to avoid the backup from the exit to the 101 to the far right to avoid the backup from the left-hand exit to the 5. Thankfully, the Dodgers game tonight was out of town, so the exits to the stadium were clear. She continued to be amazed at how the traffic coming out of downtown was always congested, no matter how late at night she was heading home. At least a few months of living in L.A. again made her appreciate how much more skilled the drivers here were than the crazies in Washington.

She had every intention of making this a short trip home, just long enough to grab some food and maybe catch a short nap before heading back in. They were making progress, but not enough to suit her. Colby and David had managed to uncover the current address of one of the lab techs who had been in the L.A. office during her initial investigation: Forest View Cemetery. Another hit and run, David had grimly reported. Now they were digging through the computer files to find everything the unfortunate tech had input in order to see if he had deliberately failed to mention a hair or other piece of trace evidence that didn't match up to Don.

But there was still so much to do, and she had the feeling that time was running out. They couldn't keep it secret much longer that J. Everett Tuttle was their prime suspect, but they had nothing remotely approaching evidence to hang him with. They were going to have to find something before he discovered their suspicions and made someone else disappear.

Traffic cleared a little as it always did right before her exit. She left the freeway and wove through the surface streets to what her mother called her mountain hide-a-way. It was perched on the side of a hill with the lofty name of Mount Washington which soared a whole seven hundred feet above sea level. In keeping with the general pattern of housing prices in L.A., the higher the property was on the hill, the more expensive it was. Her little house was one street up from the bottom. Still, it was fairly secluded, with a thicket of vegetation blocking the houses next door but not the view towards downtown. On a smoggy day like today, thin brown haze would be blurring the skyscrapers, but on a clear day, there was an ocean view, just as the realtor had promised. If you stood on tiptoe in the master bedroom and peered out the side window, that was.

She pulled into the garage and went back out to grab the mail. Closing the garage door, she climbed the stairs to the main floor. She hadn't been planning on buying a house so quickly, given the volatile nature of the L.A. housing market, but this place had been owned by a friend of her aunt's, and she'd fallen in love with it at first sight. It was tucked back far enough into the hillside that it was private, but it was a short walk from the Cypress Park and Highland Park neighborhoods and very convenient to her office. She hadn't unpacked more than the bare essentials, since her purchase of the place had pretty much coincided with her turnabout on Don Eppes' innocence. She'd barely had time to eat and sleep properly since then, as Megan Reeves had once again reminded her this evening.

Dina dropped the mail on the table and paused, her automatic routine coming to a halt as something strange registered in the corner of her mind. She carefully turned 360 degrees, trying to figure out what had caught her attention. Nothing looked out of place, from the pile of mail that she'd been dumping on the table for the past several days to her plate and bowl from breakfast that hadn't magically washed themselves in the sink while she was gone. But the hairs on the back of her neck continued to stand up, and she took a deep breath. Then it hit her. She could smell something: a whiff of aftershave, or shampoo, or something that wasn't hers.

Someone had been in her house.

She reached back and drew her gun, taking comfort from the heft of it in her hand. _Here's one for the "dumb criminal stories" e-mail_, she thought. _Breaking into an FBI agent's house_. She took a slow step forward, glad that the Persian rug underfoot would muffle her footsteps. There was no particular reason to think that the intruder was still here, but there was no reason not to, either.

She stepped out of one shoe and then the other as she crossed the dining room so her feet would remain silent on the tile floor beyond. She peered over the breakfast bar into the kitchen and saw it empty. The pantry door to her left was open, the cupboards as bare as she had left them that morning. Further on to the left, the wall dividing the dining room from the living room ended. She paused for a moment, listening. If anyone was waiting for her, they should have realized that she knew something was wrong, since she'd stopped making noise a few minutes ago. That meant extra caution on her part.

She leveled her gun in front of her and stepped around the corner, sweeping her gaze across the Ikea couch and small TV perched on a cheap end table, the only occupants of the room. Whoever had left the trace of scent behind, they either weren't here or they were on the second floor.

The noise behind her registered a fraction of a second too late.

She had started to turn when a hand clamped over her mouth and jerked her head back, baring her throat to a knife in the other hand. The smell of latex filled her nostrils from the thin rubber glove covering the hand over her mouth. She had already started to drive her elbow back when the blade nicked her skin and blood started to trickle down below her collar. She strained away from the knife, but the hand on her mouth was firmly holding her head in place against her assailant's shoulder.

"Drop the gun," a voice growled in her ear.

Dina hesitated, calculating the possibility of getting off a shot aimed at her attacker's foot or leg. Then she felt the tip of the knife slice into her skin, and the sudden, sharp pain told her she had no choice. Grimacing, she opened her hands and let the gun fall with a clatter onto the hardwood floor. A foot reached between hers and kicked it across the living room.

_Okay, defending against a knife from behind. You can do this._ She'd always been good at self-defense, a combination of being tall for a woman and having an athletic background. The classic maneuver was to lift her right arm and trap the assailant's arm against her neck so that he couldn't slash with the blade, while her other hand reached up to grab the knife. She strained to see out of the corner of her eye exactly where his hand was, and then she sharply raised her arms.

He suddenly let her go, shoving her forward so that she stumbled into the living room, her hands bracing her weight against the back of the couch and sending the furniture skidding a few inches across the wood floor. She whirled to dive for her gun, which was lying on the floor not five feet away, when a distinctive click sounded. She looked up to see a gun aimed at her, and as she swept her gaze up the arm and to the face of the person who held it, she froze.

"Lookin' pretty good for a dead guy, aren't I?" Alex Brock smirked, the Glock in his hand pointed straight at her.

She drew in a breath, some small corner of her mind pleased that it was steady. "We've known you were alive for months now," she retorted. "You ought to read the papers more often." She was still in a half-crouch, noting out of the corner of her eye where her gun was, trying to think of some kind of distraction to enable her to get to it, trying not to let the identity of the intruder throw her for too much of a loop. What the hell was he doing here?

_Take a wild guess, girl_, she told herself grimly. Her earlier thought came back to her about Tuttle making someone disappear, and a chill ran down her spine.

Brock was advancing on her, crossing the room so that he was between her and her gun. She kept her hands out in front of her, watching him warily, aware that there wasn't much she could do to defend herself. When he was about four feet away, he shifted his aim slightly to point the gun at her heart. "Bam!" he said suddenly, and she flinched. He gave a chuckle. "Just like the last one," he sneered, looking her up and down. "She was afraid, too."

She glared at him, the anger temporarily overcoming her fear. How dare he brag about killing Liz? "You son of a—"

He took two quick steps forward and grabbed her collar with one hand, shoving the gun barrel underneath her jaw with the other. She knew he was trying to scare her; he probably got some kind of a kick out of making his victims afraid. She stared back into his icy blue eyes and refused to give him the satisfaction. "Go ahead," she ground out. "We're on to you. You can't kill off the entire FBI office. Your time is up, Brock."

His eyes narrowed. "It's not my time that's up," he replied. "It's yours."

The instant she processed his words, she started reaching for the gun, knowing it was futile. He would pull the trigger and blow her head off before she could even lay a hand on the weapon. But then he was drawing the gun back, and her hands closed on empty air. Before she could readjust, he brought it down sharply, handle first.

The gun struck her temple hard, and her last thought as she crumpled to the floor was that she had never expected her refusal to believe Don Eppes to cost her quite so dearly.

ooooooooooooooooo

7:47 P.M.  
Unknown location

Don had long ago searched every corner and crevice of the room he was trapped in and found nothing of use. There was nothing other than the futon, a couple of pillows in the closet, and a box of Kleenex in the half-bath that opened off the wall opposite the door. The window on the side wall was too small to fit through, and the padlock on the door wasn't going to give way no matter how many times he slammed his shoulder against the wood. He had managed to bring his hands around to his front again and tug at the plastic restraints for what felt like hours with no success. He didn't know if it was a good sign or not that Brock had been gone for the entire day, but he could only hope that Charlie was safe and sound inside the FBI office and that Brock's hunt for him would be unsuccessful.

Then he heard footsteps on the stairs, and he tensed. He rose to his feet, stumbling a little on his sore legs, and took up a position by the door, hoping to get the drop on the gunman as he entered. There were scraping sounds at the door, and then it inched open. Brock was standing there, his gun aimed at Don through the crack of the open door, his other arm holding someone over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. "Back up," he commanded, motioning with the gun.

Don eyed him cautiously, relieved to see that the person he was carrying was wearing a skirt, which meant it couldn't be Charlie. He moved backwards enough to allow the other man to enter the room, but at another sharp motion with the gun, he reluctantly backed farther off.

Brock came forward and dumped the body unceremoniously onto the futon, and Don drew in a sharp breath when he recognized Dina Javier. Blood was trickling from her left temple, dried blood was smeared around a smaller cut on her neck, and her hands were bound behind her with the same material as Don's. Her chest was rising and falling regularly, although she was obviously unconscious. He looked up at Brock, who was once again backing out of the room, keeping the gun pointed at him before slamming the door and locking it again.

Crouching next to Javier, he examined her forehead. There was a bruise forming around the cut, indicating that Brock had knocked her out fairly recently. Lurching to his feet, he retrieved the Kleenex box and grabbed a handful, wetting them in the sink before using them to blot away the blood on her forehead. She stirred a little, and he paused. After a moment, he wiped at her neck, noticing that the bleeding there had stopped.

He moved back to her forehead, where the bleeding had slowed considerably. As he dabbed at the last of the dried blood on her cheek, she made a soft noise, and he leaned back. Her eyes were moving beneath their lids, a prelude to waking up. Leaning back so that he wasn't looming over her, he lowered his hands to make himself look as non-threatening as possible.

Her eyelids fluttered open, her eyes tracking the ceiling above them before turning in his direction. When she recognized him, she gave a start, her eyes widening in surprise. She raised her head and started to sit up, then stopped, wincing and closing her eyes again.

"Take it easy," he said quietly, reaching out with both hands to support her head. She leaned back against him for just a moment before slowly sitting up, opening her eyes as she came upright. She tried to move her arms, then stopped short as she realized they were bound behind her back. He saw a flash of fear on her face, but she quickly covered it, looking over at the streaks of blood on the tissue in his hand and then up at him.

"Déjà vu, huh?" he asked with a lift of an eyebrow.

She glanced at the plastic tie binding his hands together and said dryly, "Not exactly."

He let out a breath. "Yeah, I guess not."

"How bad is it?" she asked, closing her eyes and turning her head so that the cut on her face was closer to him.

He hesitated for a moment, then brought up the tissue to wipe off the slowing trickle of blood. "Your head, or our situation?"

Javier gave a soft snort. "Either. Both."

"Well, there's some reason we're still alive, but damned if I know what it is," he muttered.

Her eyes were closed, but frown lines formed around the corners of her mouth. "He easily could have shot me, but he knocked me out instead." She took in a deep breath. "He's got something planned."

"How long before anyone notices you're missing?" he asked, giving her forehead one final swipe before sitting back on his heels.

She opened her eyes and twitched her shoulder, as if she were automatically trying to move her arm to see her watch. Her mouth twisted in frustration, and she sighed. "Reeves sent me home insisting that I take enough of a break to actually fall asleep. I don't know if they're expecting me back before morning."

Don raised an eyebrow. "I would have thought she'd be under your command, not the other way around."

She shot him a look. "We've reached an understanding," she said coolly.

He felt the corner of his mouth turning up. What he wouldn't give to see those two strong-willed women going at it. Then his mind returned to what she had said, and he sighed. "In other words, your backup's not likely to be breaking down the door any time soon."

"Yeah, but Brock can't count on that," she said in a preoccupied tone. "And this'll be the first place they'll look."

He squinted at her, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

She tilted her head, and then understanding lit her face. "You don't know where we are, do you?"

"You do?"

The expression on her face was rueful and angry at the same time. "This is my house."

He stared at her. "But that's—" His mind started racing. That was a huge risk for Brock to take; as Javier had just pointed out, if she was discovered to be missing, her home would be the first place her fellow agents would search. That meant that either this was a temporary holding place, or Brock was planning on moving very quickly. "I take it he's the one who put the padlock on the door?" he asked, nodding towards the only exit from the room.

"Yeah, I don't think the room was designed with prisoner detention in mind," she threw back, and he snorted in response. Then her brow furrowed. "Chad just saw you last night in Sacramento, didn't he? How'd you get here so fast?"

He grimaced, feeling every sore muscle and joint in his body. "In the trunk of Brock's car."

She winced. "Are _you_ okay?" she asked, her eyes concerned.

"I'll live," he replied automatically.

As soon as he'd spoken the words, he realized how cavalier they sounded given their current situation. The grim expression on her face matched what he could feel on his own features, and he sighed. "Did Chad get to Dr. Scott?"

Javier nodded. "She's in protective custody, and she said she told us exactly what she told you, albeit in a little more detail."

"Did you already know about Tuttle?"

"We had a good idea, yeah." She explained about the missing witness with Brock's fingerprints on her dead body and the clear, if unsubstantiated, connection to Tuttle.

Don felt his hands curling into fists. If that body had washed up a year ago, Javier would have had to believe him about Brock being alive, and this whole nightmare could have turned out very differently. She must have seen the look in his eyes, for she dropped her head and said heavily, "Granger already pointed out to me the might-have-beens. But if this Tuttle guy has as a long reach as your team seems to think, he probably would have used some other means to get at you."

"Please tell me you have someone watching Charlie and my father," he replied quickly.

She nodded. "That was the first thing Granger thought of. Besides, Charlie's at the office surrounded by agents; no one's going to get to him there."

He exhaled in relief. Trust Colby to still be watching out for him and Charlie, even after chasing him in front of that train and pulling a gun on him. "Do you know what the connection is between Boudreaux and Tuttle?"

"No clue," she said with a shrug. "You?"

He shook his head. "Yesterday was the first time I heard his name since we closed the case."

"Your team was convinced it was him as soon as they heard his name."

_So now it's "my team" again? _he thought. Aloud he said, "It all fits. He has the money, he has the motivation."

"But why go after you?" she asked. "I thought it was your brother who exposed the election fraud scheme in his article."

He wasn't about to admit to her that he'd been so brash as to confront Tuttle to his face, no doubt bringing this all on himself in the process. So instead he said, "All I can say is I'm glad it was me and not Charlie he focused on."

She tilted her head to the side and regarded him, but didn't say anything. After a moment, she straightened up and asked, "So why do I rate the special treatment?" tugging at her wrists behind her and nodding at his hands in his lap.

"Because you haven't spent half an hour contorting yourself to get your hands in front of you."

"Hmm." She bent her legs and leaned sideways, struggling for only a few seconds before sitting triumphantly upright, her hands now in front of her.

He stared at her. "How'd you do that so fast? You're the same height that I am."

She was examining her wrists, grimacing at how the plastic tie had cut into her skin while she was maneuvering around. "Height doesn't make a difference; it's proportion. My arms are longer than they should be relative to the rest of me." A faint smile crossed her face. "Used to drive my mom nuts how I could reach the cookie jar much more easily than she thought I should be able to. She'd be pleased to know I was able to put that trait to good use." Then she blew out a breath. "Not that I'd ever tell her about this."

"Sounds familiar," he murmured, thinking of his father and hoping he'd get the chance_not_ to tell him about everything that had happened over the last several months.

They shared a glance of understanding, and the corner of Javier's mouth quirked up. "So do you think they're expecting us to be at each other's throats in here, or do they think we trust each other enough to work together?"

"_Do_ we trust each other?" he asked bluntly, looking her in the eye.

She pursed her lips. "Here's what I figure. You pulled a gun on me in Chicago because you didn't think it was safe to come back in. You still don't, but at this point, there's only two possibilities. One, we get out of this intact, which means Brock and probably Tuttle are under arrest, in which case you can stop running. With the other option…." Her expression darkened. "Whether or not you can run is kind of a moot point. Either way, I don't think I have to watch my back around you." She took a deep breath, her golden brown eyes watching him carefully. "The problem is, you still think you have to watch your back around me."

He looked at her for a moment. That was hitting the nail on the head. He was going to have one eye out for a possible escape, regardless of the status of the man who had brought them both here. "Your goal is to nail Brock and Tuttle," he finally said. "My goal is to get away."

She looked at him sharply. "Your goal is to nail Brock and Tuttle, too."

"That's not the end of the story. I told you before, I'm not coming in until I'm cleared. I don't care how long that takes." He shook his head. "Maybe I used to be part of the system, but I can't trust it anymore. Not based on what's already happened to me." He was on a razor's edge here, but he had to be completely honest with her, even if that meant telling her he was going to do whatever he had to in order to get away. And acknowledging what her opinion of that was likely to be. "On the other hand, I understand that you have a job to do."

She met his gaze. "At least we both know where we stand," she said quietly.

They were still looking at each other when a noise came from the other side of the door. Javier struggled to her feet, Don close behind. Without having to think about it, he signaled her to stand by the wall closest to where the door would open, while he moved to a spot behind the door. She hesitated only briefly before moving into place just as the door swung open.

From his position behind the door, close enough that he wouldn't be immediately seen but far enough back that the door couldn't slam into him, Don saw a pistol barrel moving into the room, followed by Brock's arm. Javier was slowly backing away from him, drawing him into the room without indicating where Don was waiting. _Come on, one more step_, he thought, bringing up his bound hands as a prelude to slamming them into Brock's head.

Then with lightning speed, Brock lunged forward and grabbed Javier's arm, spinning her around and turning to face Don while pointing the gun at him. The killer was a couple of inches taller than Javier, which made it easy for him to bring up his left arm and wrap it in a chokehold around her neck while he continued to aim at Don, who backed off, inwardly cursing. "Take it easy," he said to Brock, lowering his hands.

Javier's face was white, her hands tugging ineffectually on the arm across her throat. It didn't look like the hold across her neck was that tight, but the last time he'd seen that much fear in her eyes, he had been pointing a gun at her in the Santa Barbara Mountains. "Take it easy," he repeated, now directing the words at her. She stared at him for a moment, then seemed to come back to herself, her expression slowly turning determined rather than afraid.

"Go on downstairs," Brock snarled, gesturing with the Glock in his hand. "There's someone there waiting for you. We'll be right behind." He pressed the gun into Javier's side to emphasize his words.

Don swallowed, fear coiling in his stomach. Had the other man gone after Charlie after all? He looked at Javier, who was mouthing _Run!_ at him. He moved his head back and forth the tiniest amount. He wasn't leaving her in the hands of this man, and if his brother was a captive as well, there was no way he was going anywhere.

They made their way downstairs, Don's sore legs stumbling on the steps, his bound hands making it hard to keep his balance. He rounded the turn in the stairs and continued down. When he reached the bottom, he came to a dead stop at what he saw. Anger and hatred were churning so powerfully within him that for a moment, he couldn't move. Only a shove from behind forced him to move forward into the dining room, where he glared down at the room's sole occupant.

J. Everett Tuttle sat at the table, pale blue eyes alight with vindictive triumph.

"Mr. Eppes," he said, and only then did Don see the pistol in his hand as it raised to point at him. "I've been waiting for this for a long time."

oooooooooooooooooooo

A/N: Dun dun DUN!


	28. 14a: End of the Road

A/N: Thanks again for all of your reviews. I hope you still have a couple of fingernails in reserve. ;)

Disclaimer and acknowledgments are in the Prologue.

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Chapter 14: End of the Road

Tuesday, June 24, 2008  
8:25 P.M.  
3930 Glenalbyn Drive, Los Angeles, CA

Don had wondered for months what would happen when he encountered the person responsible for Liz's murder, his own arrest and conviction, and the months of pursuit that he had endured since. Now, standing in Javier's dining room of all places, staring at the man behind it all, only the gun in Tuttle's hand kept him from lunging across the table and wrapping his hands around the man's neck. He swallowed, forming his bound hands into fists, wishing that looks indeed could kill.

"Speechless?" Tuttle asked calmly. "No threats to make, no promises of retribution at a later date? That's not like you, Mr. Eppes."

Cold anger ran through him, but he forced himself to stay calm. Despite what he had been thinking earlier, even someone as powerful as Tuttle wouldn't have put such an elaborate plan into motion based solely on the taunt that Don had delivered to his face. "I don't want to waste any breath on you," he said in an icy voice.

"Probably wise, since you don't have that many breaths left," the older man replied evenly.

Don's eyes flickered down to the gun in his hand, noticing that like Brock, he was wearing thin latex gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints. For the first time, he noted the other objects on the table: a cell phone, a Glock, a pair of handcuffs, and a manila folder, all of which probably belonged to Javier. He wondered if she had taken them off and placed them on the table when she entered the house, following the regular routine upon arriving home, or if Brock had surprised her and removed them once she was unconscious.

He turned his head slightly as he saw Brock pushing Javier into the chair at the end of the table, bringing his gun to rest at the back of her neck. She was sitting perfectly still, her eyes darting between him and Tuttle, her face wearing the careful, practiced lack of expression that he instantly recognized as an agent trying not to reveal her emotions. He was trying his hardest to keep the same blankness on his own features, although between his growing anger and the pain from his sore legs and ribs, it was becoming more and more of a struggle to do so.

His gaze settled back on the man seated at the table, and he jerked his head towards Javier. "I can figure out why you're ticked at me, but why is she here?"

Tuttle raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you're actually concerned for her welfare. I would have thought you'd enjoy the opportunity to watch her demise after all that she's put you through."

"After all that _you've_ put me through," he growled, ignoring the more ominous part of Tuttle's sentence. "When did you decide to kill Liz? Was it after we shut you down, or were you already planning it while we were investigating?" Inspiration struck, and he added, "Or was it after I found another way to put you out of business?"

"So that _was_ you," Tuttle mused, leaning back in the chair. "I didn't think your brother was the type to go around publishing semi-classified information for the sake of a grudge."

Don held back a sigh of relief. He'd been right. That was why Tuttle had gone after him: he thought Don had put Charlie up to publishing that article and exposing the election fraud scheme to the world. If Tuttle thought for a second that Charlie had done it on his own, there was no way he would be safe. "So when was it?" he demanded, his voice hard.

"Come now, this isn't the act of the drama where the villain explains his motivations. Besides, from my point of view, the two of you are the villains." Tuttle slowly rose from his chair. "Six years of work I put into that project. Six years that you took apart in as many weeks. Do you have any idea what that feels like?"

_Nothing like destroying my entire life in a matter of days_, he wanted to hurl back, but he wouldn't give the other man the satisfaction. Instead he kept his face blank and said in an insolent tone, "Sucks to be you, I guess."

He saw the corner of Javier's mouth briefly turn up, but then Tuttle turned toward her and her face darkened. "And you," he said in the tone of a supervisor talking to an incompetent employee. "How hard can it be to track down one escaped fugitive in this day and age of ubiquitous government surveillance and high security?" He shook his head. "Director Boudreaux was quite disappointed with his recommendation of you, that's for certain."

Don stiffened. Boudreaux had recommended that Javier be the one to hunt him down? He stared at her, his mind racing, going back over all of his interactions with her, trying to ferret out if she had been acting at someone else's bidding or on her own. Her eyes were narrowed, and she was glaring at Tuttle. The mention of Boudreaux obviously wasn't news to her, and Don's stomach dropped further. Could he have misjudged her so badly?

She was speaking in a cold, deliberate tone. "Director Boudreaux got what he deserved, as far as I'm concerned. The two of you and Metzke tried to use me to frame an innocent man, and that's utterly despicable." She glanced over at him and must have seen his sudden wariness, because her expression took on a hint of exasperation. "Come on, Eppes. Chicago?" _Remember?_ her tone said.

The first thing that sprang to mind was the fact that she had been the one to identify Lee Boudreaux as the FBI mole, which made her look even more suspicious. Then he realized what she was trying to say. She had saved him from a killer sent by Boudreaux—no, sent by Tuttle—and if she was in cahoots with them, he would have gotten a bullet to the head in that dark alleyway with no one to ever know the difference. He gave her the smallest of nods, his mouth tightening.

Tuttle had been watching the exchange between the two of them with interest. "Yes, it seems Boudreaux would have been quite disappointed in his choice. And you started out so promisingly, Agent Javier."

Her eyes gleamed. "You screwed it up for yourself. That's what happens once you solve a problem by making someone disappear; you think it's the solution every time. If you hadn't been so eager to get rid of Eppes, I might never have known."

A slight frown wrinkled his forehead. "Thank you for the advice. I'll have to remember that next time."

Don scoffed. "You're finished, Tuttle. There's not going to be a next time."

"Those are strong words from a fugitive in the predicament that you currently find yourself in." His mouth twisted pitilessly. "After all, you are just one man."

The memory of the words echoed in Don's head, and he raised his chin. "No, I'm not," he said quietly. He knew there was a team behind him at the FBI office, family and friends who were doing their best to unravel Tuttle's conspiracy and prove him innocent. All he had to do was hold on until they could pull it off.

Tuttle's eyes narrowed, and Don felt a small bit of triumph at having finally provoked a reaction in him. "Oh, but you will be soon enough." The triumph was replaced by a chill at the quiet malice in the other man's voice. Tuttle shifted so that his pistol was pointed at Javier and gave Brock a nod. "Alex."

Don tensed, and he saw Javier doing the same thing, although there was nowhere for either of them to go. Brock reached around Javier and took her gun off the table, taking the one he had been holding and holstering it in his waistband. Then he raised it and took two steps forward, stopping when the end of the gun was resting against Don's left temple.

With considerable effort, he kept his breathing even, not wanting to let either man see his fear. Javier's eyes widened slightly, and she cast a quick glance at Tuttle, but his aim at her remained steady.

Tuttle reached forward and took the cell phone from the table, flipping it open. "There's one thing left for you to do, Mr. Eppes."

"I'm not doing anything for you," he ground out, trying to ignore the cold, hard circle of the gun barrel against the side of his head.

The older man continued as if he hadn't spoken. "You're going to call your former Assistant Director Wright. You're going to tell him that you're holding Agent Javier hostage, and that you want safe passage out of the country and a million dollars for all the pain and suffering the FBI has caused you."

Don looked at Tuttle with as cold a gaze as he could manage. "No way."

He gave a slow nod. "Alex."

Beside him, he barely heard the soft click as Brock started to squeeze the trigger, releasing the first internal safety of the Glock. His heart pounded at the thought of how little pressure it would take on the trigger to end his life, but he kept staring at Tuttle. If they were going to kill him anyway, there was no reason to make things worse by giving into their demands. "I won't do it," he said through gritted teeth.

The older man didn't respond right away, but regarded Don for a moment. Then he put down the phone and reached for the file folder still sitting on the table, flipping it open and holding it up. Don looked at the photograph in the folder and felt the blood drain from his face. It was an image of a large lecture hall with a chalkboard covered in mathematical symbols, a familiar figure with dark curly hair writing on the board, and yesterday's date in the upper left-hand corner of the chalkboard. He raised his eyes to meet Tuttle's, his heart thumping. The other man merely smiled and let the photo slide to the table top. Behind it was another photo, obviously taken through a window, of Alan Eppes reading a newspaper. The next picture was a close-up, showing today's date on the paper.

Tuttle didn't say a word. He didn't have to.

Don closed his eyes, clenching his jaw even tighter. All this time, all that Tuttle had put him through in the past year, and it all came down to this. The message was clear: if he didn't do what he was told, Charlie and Alan would suffer, and he knew the man standing in front of him would have no scruples about carrying out his threat. If he could get close enough to take these photos, despite the protection the FBI had arranged, he could get close enough to do a lot worse. If Don played along, there might be a way out of this—at least for his family, if not for him.

"All right," he said in an undertone, looking away. "Give me the phone."

"Eppes!" came Javier's accusing voice as she sprang to her feet, Brock instantly pulling the gun away from his head and pointing it at her. She froze in place, shooting daggers at him with her eyes.

He mouthed one word:_Charlie_.

She drew in a sharp breath. Some of the fire left her eyes, although she still looked furious.

Tuttle dropped the file folder on the dining room table and picked up the cell phone before tucking his gun into a holster underneath his suit jacket. "You will tell him exactly what I tell you to say. No deviations, no secret messages, or Alex is going to take a trip to Pasadena and bring back some more guests."

Don gave a short nod, hatred burning in his eyes. Tuttle took a pen from his pocket and wrote a few sentences on the inside of the file folder. He put the page in front of Don and opened the phone. "Speakerphone only. You," and he looked up at Javier, "will not say a word." He entered a number and handed the phone to Don, who took it as best he could with his hands tied together. "Now."

Don pressed the button to dial, holding the phone out in front of him, and they all waited a few seconds while the number rang. "Hello," came the voice at the other end.

"A.D. Wright?" Of course it was. This late at night, there would be no use in dialing the main office, and he shouldn't be surprised that Tuttle's spiderweb of connections included the personal number of an Assistant Director of the FBI.

"Who is this?" Wright's voice had turned suspicious.

He stared at the phone. All of the instincts he had cultivated over the past seven months were about to go out the window when he spoke the next few words. "This is Don Eppes."

There was silence for a second. Then the other man said carefully, "This is a surprise."

Tuttle tapped the paper, and he drew a deep breath. "I'm here with Agent Javier," he said, staring down at the words on the page and feeling three pairs of eyes boring into him. "And I can't take this anymore."

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end. "What does that mean?"

He looked up at Tuttle, but the other man was watching to see how he responded, a slight smile curling his lips. He was actually enjoying this. _Bastard_. "What do you think it means?" he rejoindered, looking away.

"Let me talk to her," Wright demanded.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Tuttle shaking his head while scribbling something else on the manila folder. "I can't do that," he replied, thinking for a moment of the convenience store back in Texas and the robber who'd forced him to pretend he was an accomplice. That had been hard enough, but this was so, so much worse. He could only twist his words so far before Tuttle punished him for it—or, more likely, punished his family for it. And the stakes here were even higher.

"If you lay a hand on one of my agents…" came the threatening voice on the other end.

Don swallowed hard, almost feeling physical pain from the words he was being forced to say. "She'll be fine as long as you do what I say," he said roughly, not believing it for a second.

A movement caught his eye, and he looked up to see Javier staring intently at him. He'd seen those light brown eyes of hers wide with fear, sparking with anger, and calm and in control. He'd never seen them expressing the compassion that they were currently showing, despite the fact that he was essentially making a threat against her life. He took a deep breath as he looked back at her, a small part of him noting the irony of drawing strength from this woman who had been his persecutor for so long, but was now his only ally in a situation that was growing more and more impossible by the minute.

Wright exhaled, the sound hissing through the tiny speaker of the cell phone. "What do you want, Don?" he asked in the calm negotiator's voice that Don had used so many times himself, but never been on the other end of.

Tuttle's finger moved down the page, and he tore his eyes away from Javier's, his stomach churning as he read the words. "I want…a safe way out of the country for both of us, with no one following. I want a million dollars as compensation for…for what the FBI has done to me. Once I have both of those things, she'll be let go." He bit his lip and closed his eyes. "That's all."

"It'll take some time to put that together, as you well know."

_Yeah, I know_. He'd stalled ransom demands too many times himself not to know that most of that time went to trying to find out the location of the perpetrators rather than actually making any kind of arrangements. But Tuttle had one more thing for him to say, so he cleared his throat. "You have one hour."

There was a short sigh. "Don, it's getting well into the evening, and it's going to be hard to get into touch with everyone I have to in order to make this happen. You have to give me more time than that."

He glanced at Tuttle and was rewarded with an implacable shake of his head. "I can't."

Wright asked carefully, "What happens if it's not enough time, Don? What are you going to do?"

He could feel the anguish on his face as he looked at Javier and tried to think of how to answer the question. She was gazing solidly back, calm and reassuring, her eyes telling him to do whatever he had to in order to get through this. He suddenly realized that she really did trust him, not so much in terms of whether he was a flight risk, but in terms of his abilities and his instincts as an FBI agent. He felt the tiniest spark of hope that he thought had been extinguished when Tuttle opened the file folder a few minutes ago. He didn't know how, but they might manage to make it through this.

He took another deep breath, more steady than before, and answered in a level tone, "Just make it happen, Assistant Director."

Then he flipped the phone shut and dropped it on the table as though it were burning his fingers, still looking at Javier. She gave him the slightest of nods before shifting her attention to Tuttle.

The older man was looking back and forth between the two of them with an evaluative gaze. But all he said was, "Well done."

"You know Wright won't believe that for a second," Javier snapped. "He knows everything that's going on with the investigation, including who the truly guilty parties are. It'll take more than a phone call to change his mind."

"Oh, there'll be more than a phone call." Tuttle raised a hand, and Don stepped back. But Brock moved too quickly, grabbing his arm and pulling him in front of him, the gun in his hand now pressing against the right side of Don's head. He struggled, but the grip on his arm was too firm, not to mention that in his exhausted and injured state, a twelve-year-old could probably have taken him.

"There'll be two dead bodies and plenty of forensic evidence to draw a logical conclusion," Tuttle went on. "I think we can agree that someone who's had to go through what you have the last few months, Mr. Eppes, would be more than a little resentful towards the FBI agent who's been chasing you around the country. More than resentful; maybe even homicidal? Certainly suicidal, after realizing there's no way out for you. I'm sure A.D. Wright and the investigative team will agree."

If it were possible, the gun against the side of his head suddenly seemed even more menacing. He exchanged a quick look with Javier, then flicked his eyes to the cell phone on the table. The FBI would be running a trace on the GPS chip inside, and if they could stall long enough, the cavalry would arrive. He didn't see how he'd be able to get away, but keeping himself and Javier alive was all that mattered right now. There was grim agreement in her eyes, tinged with the bleak realization that they probably didn't have enough time to wait for the cavalry. They were going to have to do something in the next few minutes to save themselves.

And he had no idea what that might be.

oooooooooooooooooo

"Charlie, how are you coming in here?"

"Nothing yet," he replied, not looking up at the sound of Megan's voice but continuing to tap away on the touchpad of his laptop.

She perched on the table next to him. "Are we pulling you in too many directions at once here?"

He shook his head. There was no such thing as too many directions when it came to trying to help Don. "No, I'm just experiencing concept drift."

A tiny frown furrowed her forehead. "What?"

"Concept drift. See, sometimes when you're trying to model a variable, its statistical properties change over time in ways you can't predict at the start. So you have to keep readjusting the model to take those changes into account."

"And what you're trying to model is…"

David's voice broke in from the other side of the room. "Whoever else at this office might be 'employed' on the side by Tuttle."

"Right," Charlie said, continuing to type away. "Only the problem is, as soon as you guys find someone like that lab tech who was killed in the hit and run, that changes a lot of the variables, and it takes time for me to adjust them."

"Do you have any possibilities?" Megan asked, a note of plaintiveness entering her voice.

He shook his head in frustration, trying not to sound exasperated as he said, "No, but I'll let you know as soon as I do, okay?"

She patted him on the shoulder and slid off the desk. "No problem."

Tuning out the low-voiced conversation she and David were having, he continued to adjust and readjust the parameters of his model. According to his preliminary results, there _was_ no one else in the L.A. field office who was likely to have been influenced by Tuttle. That should have been reassuring, but instead it was making him doubt his work. There couldn't have been just the one lab tech and Metzke, could there?

Looking up for a moment, he sighed, watching Megan walk out of the room. There was no one else on this floor of the office this late at night besides the six of them, and so while Charlie was ensconced in his corner of the war room, the five agents had spread out over practically the entire floor. They moved from the glass-walled room to their respective cubicles as if it were all one giant workspace, calling to each other across the space in between, no other sound but the faint whirring of the central air conditioner.

So when Megan's cell phone trilled out across the floor, Charlie could make out of most of what she said. Especially once she raised her voice.

"You did?"

He lifted his head in time to see her shoot to her feet. "What?" she exclaimed, getting everyone's attention.

That was followed by, "Sir, I don't think—"

He exchanged a questioning glance with David. Then her voice dropped about twenty degrees. "There is no way—"

David was rising to his feet, and Charlie placed his laptop up on the table and stood as well, in time to hear Megan say, "Of course, but Agent—Don would never—"

At that, Charlie strode forward out of the conference room, David half a step behind him. They reached the edge of the cubicle, Colby and Matt meeting them just as Megan lowered her voice. "Of course, sir, you're right. We'll get going ASAP."

She hung up the phone and turned, not showing any surprise at seeing all of them there. "Get your gear," she said to the agents gathered around her. "Vests and weapons, in thirty seconds or less."

"What's going on?" Chad Danvers asked as he rose from his seat.

"I'll explain on the way," she said with a sideways glance at Charlie.

He folded his arms across his chest. "Megan, what is it?"

She brushed past him. "I can't tell you, Charlie. We've got to go."

"Megan!" He'd never heard Don's commanding tone of voice coming out of his own mouth before, and it startled him almost as much as the rest of the team. Colby's head whipped around at the sound, and Megan turned so sharply that she almost bumped into the cubicle wall. He tried to channel authority rather than pleading as he went on, "Please, tell me what's going on."

She bit her lip, then leaned towards him and put a hand on his upper arm. "You can't tell anyone. Especially not your father."

It was a struggle to keep his expression calm at those words, but he thought he managed, even though his stomach was doing flips. "All right."

She sighed and lowered her voice. "A.D. Wright just got a call from someone whom he said sounded like Don, claiming to be holding Dina hostage."

"What?" he exploded.

David had been digging through his desk for equipment, but he turned around at her words. "Let me guess," he said grimly. "Wright doesn't think it was a 'claim'."

Megan shook her head, lips pressed together.

"But that—that's ridiculous!" Charlie exclaimed.

Colby's voice added from behind him, "Don wouldn't say anything like that unless he was forced to."

Charlie whirled to face him, the words making a connection in his brain that made his heart sink. "You're right," he breathed, fear for his brother suddenly choking his throat.

"The call came in on Dina's cell phone," Megan said, and he turned back to face her. "The techs are tracing the GPS chip, and by the time we get to the vehicles downstairs, they should have a location for us." She was pulling on her Kevlar vest over her dark brown blouse and pulling her ponytail away from the back. "We'll call you as soon as we know anything. Remember," she said, pointing a finger at him as she backed out of the cubicle. "Not a word."

He nodded and watched the rest of the team follow her towards the elevators, checking their arms and armor, and he swallowed. One way or the other—and it had to be the other—Don was in serious trouble. He was _here_, right here in L.A., and he was in big trouble. And all Charlie could do was watch the agents disappear into the elevator on their way to rescue him.

No, there was something else he could do. He dashed back to the conference room and dove back into his work. Don was going to be fine, he knew it. His team was on their way. And once his brother was retrieved safe and sound, he was going to need Charlie to deliver the proof that he'd been innocent all along. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he turned his focus away from thoughts of Don holding someone at gunpoint, Don being held at gunpoint —no, don't go there—Megan and the team breaking down a door and carting off the bad guys in handcuffs. _There, that's a much better image to keep in mind._

He fought to hold on to the image as he typed and clicked, hoping desperately that his work would, in fact, be needed.

oooooooooooooooooo

A/N: (clop clop, clop clop) Will the cavalry make it in time? They'll ride faster the more times that review button gets clicked…


	29. 14b: End of the Road

A/N: So, I'm posting this faster than I was planning to because of all of the "encouragement" I received. Thanks! And I promise, this is the last cliffhanger. But you know what they say about that last step…

Disclaimer and acknowledgments are in the Prologue.

ooooooooooooooooo

Dina watched warily as Tuttle took a step towards her, his unveiled threat of a moment ago lingering in the air. That explained the gloves the men were wearing, the reason Brock had traded pistols so that hers was the one he was holding against Don's head, and the reason her fugitive had been abducted and hauled down here in the first place: Tuttle was trying to stage a murder-suicide to get the both of them out of the way and eliminate all suspicion as to how and why.

Her mind racing, she stepped to the side so the chair that she'd shot out of a moment ago was no longer behind her. Not that there was anywhere to go, but she wanted the freedom of movement if and when she got the opportunity. _As freely as you can move with your hands tied in front of you_, she reminded herself. _And a devil of a headache from getting conked out_.

"I didn't think you liked to get your hands dirty," Don spat at Tuttle as he came closer to her. "I guess that's what getting desperate will do for you."

"Well, at some point, the most efficient way of getting a job done is to do it yourself." He regarded Don for a moment. "Besides, this way I can watch the life go out of your eyes."

The calm, flat tone in which he delivered that statement sent chills down Dina's spine. He might have been discussing an acquisition of a company or a stock market deal, not murder. _Reeves, you were right. Grade A sociopath, all the way_.

She saw sudden, sharp fear on Don's face for an instant before his features became a blank mask once again.

Tuttle pulled a length of fabric out of his pocket and stretched it taut between his hands. She suddenly realized what it was and felt her heart leap into her throat. "Did you know, Mr. Eppes, that Agent Javier had an unfortunate run-in with a serial killer early in her career? It seems she narrowly avoided being one of his victims." He held up both ends of the scarf and regarded her with his pale blue eyes as he came closer. She stared at him, willing herself to stay in control, although she could feel her breathing coming faster and her heart beginning to pound. She took a step back, but Tuttle moved suddenly, grabbing the plastic tie around her wrists with his left hand and pulling her in front of him. "He strangled young women," Tuttle was saying, the words directed at Eppes. "Wrapped one of their own scarves around their necks and crushed the life out of them."

She saw Don's eyes widen, and his upper body jerked forward as if he was trying to get away. But Brock held him firmly, the Glock unrelentingly jammed against his head. And then at the first brush of the scarf against her neck, her eyes slammed shut. She knew that her fear was exactly the reaction that Tuttle wanted, but she couldn't help the shudder that passed over her as he wound the material around her neck, completely encircling it. Her fists clenched, but the tight grip around her wrists meant that she couldn't lift her hands to stop him.

"It was an interesting story," he said almost conversationally into her ear. Behind her closed eyelids, she saw the shadow of his arm as he made another pass with the scarf. "So nearly a tragedy. It must have been difficult for you; was it six months you were talking to a Bureau psychologist afterwards, or eight? Mr. Eppes could well have found out that information and decided that making you suffer in this way was a small means of paying you back for everything you've put him through."

A small part of her was furious at his words and the invasion of her privacy they revealed. Had Metzke been the one to tell him about this fear of hers, or had he used other connections? The rest of her was too preoccupied with fighting off a panic attack as the silk tightened around her throat.

"Javier!" Don's sharp voice cut into her increasingly dark thoughts.

Her eyes snapped open, and she stared at him. Brock was standing behind him, gun still at his temple, but his eyes were locked on hers. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Tuttle's hand moving, gathering the two ends of the scarf together, and she wanted to scream. But Don's dark eyes were boring into hers, his expression clearly saying, _Don't let him do this. Don't let him get to you._ He didn't say another word, just kept looking at her as if they were the only two people in the room, telling her without words not to give in. Later, she would think of how supremely ironic it was that she should gather such strength from the man she had first despised and then feared. But at the moment, all she felt was gratitude towards him for silently reminding her of their conversation in the hurricane.

_"You never give up, do you?"_

_"No, I don't."_

She didn't let herself relax, not wanting Tuttle to think that anything had changed. But she looked more deliberately at Don, glancing down to the arm that held her bound hands in place, and then at the gun next to his head before meeting his eyes again. She felt the scarf tighten further around her throat as Tuttle pulled on the ends and fought back a wave of panic. But Don's gaze held her steady, the tiny nod telling her that he understood they were about to get their last chance. He twisted his bound hands slightly so they were crossed at the wrists and uncurled one finger. Then two.

Then three.

She'd been leaning away from Tuttle as much as she could, and now she abruptly slammed back into him, driving an elbow into his ribs. She heard an "Oof!" as the breath exploded out of him. Twisting down and to her right, she spun to face him, and to her relief, nothing tightened around her neck. Tuttle had let go of the scarf, but now his right hand was reaching into his jacket, his fingers closing around the butt of the Browning tucked into its concealed holster.

Lunging for the gun, her hands closed around his wrist as his left hand grabbed her upper arm. He was surprisingly strong for his age; it felt like there was a vice closing around her bicep. Suddenly the pressure disappeared, and in a second she realized why. His hand had moved towards the scarf still looped around her neck, and he was giving it a hard pull.

Stars danced briefly before her eyes, and it took all the concentration she had to keep her hands wrapped around his wrist, pushing the gun back into its holster. He was struggling to pull it out and choke her at the same time, and she was suddenly afraid that she wouldn't be able to get enough oxygen to keep her grip. So she loosened her hold on his hand, enough that he could pull the gun clear, and then she pounced, driving her shoulder into his chest and wresting the gun from his hand.

The sound of a gunshot split the air, and for a second she thought Tuttle had somehow managed to get a finger on the trigger. Then she heard a cry of pain that sounded like Don's voice, and her heart sank.

Tuttle took advantage of her momentary distraction to wrap both of his hands over hers to try and pry the gun out of her hand. But fear at what was going on behind her made her hold on. If Don had fallen, she _had_ to get control here. With one desperate tug, she wrenched herself free and stepped back, pointing the gun at Tuttle. "Hands on your head," she barked. "Now."

A second gunshot echoed off the walls, but she didn't dare look over her shoulder. "Now, damn it!"

His pale eyes cold and hard, Tuttle lifted his hands and placed them on top of his head. His gaze flickered to the other side of the table, but he didn't give anything away by his expression.

She took another step back before risking a look. All she saw was the two men on the floor, neither one of them moving. _Oh, God_.

"Eppes!" she called out. "Can you hear me?"

A low, agonized moan was her only response. _Damn it,_ she thought, looking quickly at Tuttle. He was watching her carefully, noticing how torn she was. Don needed her help right now, but she didn't have any way to restrain Tuttle. Hell, her own hands were still bound, which meant she was holding the gun more awkwardly than she would have liked.

Then a thought occurred to her, and she looked over at Eppes again, allowing more concern and indecision to creep into her expression. She lowered the gun a fraction, watching Tuttle out of the corner of her eye. _Come on, you son of a—_

He started to shift his weight, his hands lowering from the top of his head and beginning to reach for her. Instantly, she shifted her grip on the gun, sliding it backwards in her hands so that she was holding onto the barrel. As Tuttle lunged towards her, she neatly sidestepped him and then clocked him on the side of the head with the heavy handle of the weapon, watching with no small amount of satisfaction as he fell to the ground with a thump and lay there, completely still.

She had no time to relish her victory, however. Jamming the gun into the holster she'd put on what seemed like days ago but was only that morning, she raced over to where Don was lying on the ground, bright red blood pooling around his left thigh. "Hey, you with me?" she asked sharply as she knelt next to him.

"Yeah," he said so faintly she almost didn't hear it, his face starkly pale against the red-and-black rug.

"Good," she replied. "Keep it that way, you hear?"

He didn't respond, and she felt at the side of his neck. His pulse was still strong, but from the speed with which the carpet beneath his leg was becoming saturated, she had the bad feeling that wouldn't last for long. She started to reach towards the wound on his leg and cursed as she realized her hands were still tied and she didn't have time to look for something sharp to free herself. Whatever she could do for him, it would have to be done with both hands at once.

Suddenly she realized the scarf was still wound around her throat. Nearly laughing at the irony, she yanked it off and wadded it up, saying, "This is going to hurt, but hang in there, okay?"

He grunted in response, but when she put the scarf over the bullet wound and pressed down, he let out a yell that echoed off the dining room walls. "Sorry, I'm sorry," she muttered, lifting her head to look at him. His head was tilted to the side, eyes closed, respiration coming too fast for someone who was lying so still on the ground.

A sudden thought struck her, and she looked up at where she had last seen Alex Brock. He was lying about an arm's length away, deathly still, the bright red stain across his upper chest telling a clear tale.

She frowned, trying to remember what had been going on in the background while she was struggling with her own captor. There had been two gunshots, but she was sure that Don had gone down first. She looked over and saw his hands still loosely wrapped around Brock's gun, and she realized what had happened. "You stubborn bastard," she murmured admiringly. He'd gotten a bullet in the leg—what might yet be a fatal shot—and he'd still had enough strength to overcome the hired killer.

Her hands slipped a little, and she was alarmed to note that the blood flowing out of his wound didn't seem to be slowing down at all. With the bullet hole where it was, that probably meant that an artery had at least been nicked, if not downright cut. She tried to remember her most recent first aid refresher course, but all that sprang to mind was the frightening possibility that such an injury could result in death in five minutes or less.

She twisted her head to look up at the table behind her. Her cell phone was still sitting where Don had dropped it earlier, well out of reach even if her hands weren't tied together. Next to the phone, the glint of her handcuffs caught her eye, and she cursed. There _was_ a way to restrain Tuttle, except she couldn't get to it at the moment. She cast a glance at Don and frowned to see that his eyes were closed. "Hey, Eppes!" She pushed down a little harder and was rewarded with a groan and a roll of his head to the side. _No way he can apply any pressure himself_, she thought. _He's doing enough just breathing_.

She measured the distance to the phone and lunged for it, flipping it open and dialing 911 as fast as she could. She tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder and leaned back down on Don's leg, eliciting another sharp cry from him.

"Nine one one, what is your emergency?"

"This is Special Agent Geraldina Javier of the FBI. I need backup and EMTs immediately at 3930 Glenalbyn Drive. I have an agent down and a suspect who needs to be restrained."

"Roger that," came the dispatcher's response. "I'll have LAPD and EMTs there right away."

"Thank you. I have a wounded man who I think is losing blood from his femoral artery, and I'm not sure that I'm applying the right treatment."

The dispatcher talked her through the steps to take, taking it in stride when Dina said her hands were tied together, telling her where to apply pressure to Don's upper leg so that the artery would be compressed between her closed fist and the bone on the other side of it. "It's going to hurt him," the dispatcher warned.

She passed along the warning as she made a fist with one hand, found the spot high on the inside of his leg, and pressed down. Don's agonized cry was audible to the dispatcher, who said, "Just press down as hard as you can, and keep him alert. ETA is now five minutes on that ambulance, and I've been informed that the FBI is on the way as well."

"Thank you," she said. "I can't stay on the line, but I'll keep it open." Then she let the phone slip to the floor and returned her attention to the wounded man in front of her. "You still with me?" she asked, pressing down on his leg with all of her weight.

He let out a sharp grunt of pain. "M'not an agent…anymore," he panted out in shallow breaths.

"If it gets them here faster, it works for me," she replied.

His eyelids cracked open, and he regarded her from their pain-filled depths. "You…just don't want…me getting away."

She gave a half-laugh. "That's right, Eppes," she replied. "Six thousand miles of chasing you and I'm not giving up now, okay? You've got to stay with me."

"Not a lotta…incentive," he said, his eyelids fluttering shut.

"Hey now." She leaned down harder, and his eyes popped back open, the lines of pain deepening across his face. "You got Brock. And I got Tuttle." She cast a glance over her shoulder to make sure he was still unconscious. She couldn't spare the time to restrain him, but thankfully he was still down for the count. "All that's left is for the justice system to do its thing."

"Worked…last time," he muttered faintly, staring up at the ceiling.

"Last time they tricked me," she said in a steely voice. "This time around, I'm on your side."

His gaze slid down to meet hers. "You…always win?"

"Yes, I do," she said firmly, trying not to notice how much blood was still soaking into the carpet. "So keep fighting, okay?"

There was a knock at the door, and she whipped her head around. "Special Agent Javier?" came faintly through the door. "This is Sergeant Pat Dalton of the LAPD."

"Come in," she called urgently.

There was a rattling sound, and then he said, "The door's locked, ma'am."

She grimaced. "I can't leave him to unlock it," she shouted. "You're going to have to break it down."

Two thuds later, her front door crashed to the ground, and a voice called out, "Agent?"

"Over here," she called. A tall, burly policeman rounded the corner, gun at the ready, a shorter female cop behind him. She watched their eyes widen as they took in the sight: two men on the floor, one with a fatal wound to the chest, the other one stirring and coming to, and her kneeling over another man whose leg was saturated with blood.

"He needs the paramedics _now_," she said, her cool-in-a-crisis persona rising to the fore as if this were any other case and as if she had not so nearly been a victim herself. "He needs restraints and to be read his rights," she added, nodding at a groggy Tuttle at the other end of the room. "And he can wait for the morgue," she said with a jerk of her head towards Brock.

The paramedics were there in seconds, one moving to take Don's vital signs and one moving to replace her position at his leg. The one at his head started examining the bruise on his forehead, and she said impatiently as she backed away, "That's old. It's the gunshot wound that matters."

After a moment, a third EMT entered and came over to her. "Can I take a look at you?" he asked.

"At what?" she asked, confused. She had staggered to her feet and backed off once the EMTs took over, trying to ignore the stickiness on her fingers as the blood started to dry, watching with grim pleasure as the police dragged Tuttle to his feet and put handcuffs on him.

"It looks like there was something wrapped around your neck, and your hands might be injured," he said patiently. "And is that a fresh cut on your forehead?"

Dina blinked. She'd already forgotten about the horror of her near-strangulation in the face of what had happened since. "Yes, there was; no, they aren't; yes, it is, but I'm fine. Please, concentrate on him."

He nodded and joined the other two, who were murmuring about blood pressure and heart rhythms and units of blood. Then one of them left, presumably to get a stretcher. She watched from a distance as Don he tried to respond to their questions, but his replies were too faint for her to hear, and even the renewed pressure that one of the paramedics put on his leg elicited no more than a mild groan.

"Agent Javier?"

She looked over at the LAPD officer. "Yes?"

He was gesturing towards Don, his voice shaded with uncertainty as he said, "You said on the emergency call that there was an agent down, but do you know who he is?"

She took a step towards him, anger suddenly blooming within her. "Do you know who _I_ am?" she asked incredulously.

He frowned for a moment, and then she saw the light bulb go on over his head. "Oh. Oh, of course you know who he is. But—" He paused as a stretcher was wheeled towards the injured man. "He can't be left unescorted, and he really shouldn't be left unrestrained—"

She enunciated carefully, her tone growing icier with each word. "Does he _look_ like he needs to be restrained?"

He flinched. "Sorry, Agent. Just following procedure."

Giving a short nod, she resisted the urge to hold her blood-stained hands up in front of his face to illustrate how incapacitated Eppes currently was. "I'll be riding in the ambulance with him, and I can certainly make sure he doesn't try to jump out the back."

"No, you won't."

The voice was Megan's, and she whirled around to confront her. "Excuse me?"

The rest of her team had entered while she was arguing with the LAPD moron, and their faces wore various combinations of horror and anger as they took in the scene. Within a few seconds, Matt and Chad were taking custody of a still-woozy Tuttle, David was making sure the paramedics had a clear route out the front door, and Colby was bagging the gun resting in Don's hands.

Megan was looking at her sympathetically, which was precisely what she did _not_ need at this point in time. She needed to stay angry, needed to stay upset, or she was going to break down under the strain of the last few hours. "Dina, we traced Don's phone call here, and—" She gestured to indicate the entire scene. "We need you to tell us what happened. Besides, you're still very much part of a crime scene."

She wanted to fold her arms across her chest, but all she could do was stand there, feeling the plastic tie still biting into her wrists and smelling the coppery stench of her reddened hands. Her head was aching so badly she could hardly think, much less take command of the situation. Off to her right, Don let out a low groan, and she looked to see him being carefully loaded onto the stretcher, his face even paler than it had been a few minutes ago. She turned back towards Megan, whose sympathetic look had taken on a touch of impatience. "All right," she sighed.

Megan nodded and raised her voice. "Colby, you ride with him. David, go get Charlie and Alan and bring them to wherever they're taking him."

"No, wait," Dina said as a chilling thought occurred to her. She looked down at the file folder still open on the table and then back at David. "Call the agents who are on them first and make sure everything's okay."

David gave her a wary look as he pulled out his phone. "What's wrong?"

She jerked her chin towards the small pile of photos. "Tuttle made a threat against them, but I don't think he needed to carry it out."

"The phone call," Megan said, her voice hardening.

She nodded, almost afraid to ask what had happened after Don's call to A.D. Wright had gone through. But she was distracted by the paramedics pushing the stretcher out the door, Colby following closely behind. Watching them go, she felt a strange kind of emptiness at letting Don Eppes out of her sight.

"He'll be okay," Megan said quietly, her gaze also turned towards the front door.

"You don't know that," she replied harshly.

Megan turned back towards her, a knowing look in her eyes. "You know that he's strong. He's made it this far; he's not going to give up now."

She exhaled. "I hope you're right."

Across the room, David spoke. "Charlie's still at the office, and everything's fine with Alan. I'm heading over there right now."

Megan nodded at him and said, "Come on," putting a cautious hand on her shoulder. "Let's get your hands washed off so the photo guys can start taking pictures and we can cut you loose."

Dina looked around as it sank in for the first time that her home was about to be picked apart, violated a second time as the crime scene technicians turned over every scrap of material and photographed every inch of the place. If this second invasion was more clinical than Brock and Tuttle's, it would also be more detailed, a more complete loss of privacy. She was already starting to mourn the loss of security and sanctuary this home had provided. Those feelings had disappeared the instant Alex Brock's hand closed over her mouth.

And looking down at the bright red splotches on the floor, she didn't think she could ever be in this room again without remembering Don Eppes' lifeblood draining away beneath her hands.

She gave a shudder and turned away. "Yeah, that would be good," she said, letting Megan lead her towards the bathroom.

Outside, the wail of the siren cut into the night as the ambulance sped away.

oooooooooooooooo


	30. 15a: The Road Home

A/N: This chapter grew like Topsy as I was writing it (who the heck is Topsy, anyway?) and will therefore be carved up into three sections which will each be a little shorter than most of the previous posts. Somehow I don't think you'll mind. :) Aw, I know you're not really listening, you just want to find out what happens next. So here we go…

Disclaimer…acknowledgments…prologue. Connect the dots.

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Chapter 15: The Road Home

Time unknown  
Place unknown

A soft, persistent beeping was the first thing he heard. He listened to it for a while, finding it to be a reassuring, regular sound. Eventually he felt his own chest moving up and down, the breath huffing in and out of his lungs. He realized with bewilderment that he hadn't expected to feel that again. He couldn't quite remember why, but something had happened….

"Donnie, can you hear me? Are you awake?"

The voice jolted him into awareness, if not comprehension. His brow furrowed the tiniest bit. "Dad?" he voiced, barely audible even to his own ears. No, that couldn't be his father's voice. He'd been longing to see his family again, but if they were here with him, that meant he was in custody.

"Come on, Don," came a soft, loving voice. "Open your eyes for me."

He drew in a sudden, shuddering breath as he realized that it _was_ his father talking. All that time he'd managed to evade Javier and the rest of the FBI, all those months of successfully running and hiding, and now he'd been captured. He frowned as a memory flickered through his head. Why would they have transported him here in the trunk of a car?

"Oh, son." Alan's voice sounded so emotional that Don forced himself to open his eyes. He had to blink a couple of times to clear his vision, and when he did, he was still confused. His father looked like he had aged about ten years since he had last seen him, his hair sparser and his face sporting lines that were deeper and more numerous than he remembered.

"How long?" he muttered, struggling to sit up. He couldn't stay in bed—he had to get out of here, although he doubted that he could get very far considering how tired and weak he felt, even with his father's help.

He barely got his head off the pillow before Alan gently pushed him back down. "None of that, young man. You've been out for almost three days. Well, you woke up briefly after the surgery, but I'm not surprised you don't remember that." A shadow crossed his face, but then his eyes lit with the warm glow that Don had missed so desperately over the past months. "I'm just awfully glad you're awake now," he said in a husky tone of voice as he reached over to press the call button.

Don took the opportunity to look around the room, at least as much as he could without moving his head, which seemed to weigh a ton. It was a small, private room with one bed, although there was a cot against the wall with an occupant. He felt a faint smile come to his lips. "Charlie," he said softly. _Thank God, Tuttle didn't get to either one of them._

Alan followed his gaze. "He hasn't left. Neither have I. We needed to make sure we were here when you woke up."

He continued scanning the room, puzzled to see no one else. He tried raising his arms and found them unrestrained, although there were faint red lines around his wrists. That was strange. The guard must be outside the room. He looked towards the door, but didn't see a shadow on the other side of the frosted glass window. Maybe they figured that he wasn't much of a flight risk as long as he was too weak to lift his head. No, that wasn't proper procedure. Someone was going to get in trouble for that.

The door opened, and he tensed. It was a woman who looked way too young to be wearing a nurse's uniform, carrying a handful of medical equipment and heading straight towards the clipboard at the foot of the bed. "I see we're awake," she said cheerfully.

Don grunted agreement and didn't object to her poking and prodding while she took his pulse, temperature, blood pressure, and a few other measurements. He answered her questions about his leg, which started throbbing once she mentioned it, and his less-painful head, ribs, and ankle in the fewest words possible. She made some notations on the clipboard and went off to fetch a doctor. Charlie stayed asleep throughout the whole thing.

Don looked towards the door as she exited, but still didn't see anyone in uniform outside. He closed his eyes, alarmed at how exhausted he felt. "Least they let you see me," he murmured. "That's good."

"What do you mean?" Alan's voice was puzzled.

He blearily opened his eyes again. "No guard," he said. "Should be a guard in the room."

Alan's brow furrowed for a minute, then cleared as he bestowed a wide smile on him. "My God, I forgot; no one could have told you, could they? Of course not, you've been unconscious the whole time."

He squinted, confused. "Tol' me what?"

Alan leaned closer and put a gentle hand on Don's upper arm. "They found evidence that the creep on Agent Javier's team had hidden. Forensic evidence from when Liz was killed, evidence that Alex Brock was the one who killed her. They took it to the judge and got an emergency appeal hearing. He overturned the conviction, Don. You're free and completely exonerated."

He stared at his father, not sure he had heard correctly. "Overturned?" he asked weakly.

Alan nodded, still beaming. "The whole world knows you're innocent. You're free, son."

Don leaned back into the pillow. "Oh, wow," he breathed. In all of his running, all of his searching, he had never actually envisioned what would happen once he found Alex Brock and got the authorities to listen. It had always been such a long shot, such a near-impossibility, that he couldn't even begin to think about it lest the hopelessness overwhelm him.

But now—now, the concept was too much to take in, tired and spent as he was, and he closed his eyes. "S'good," he muttered, already sliding back towards sleep.

He felt his father's warm hand on his forehead. "Yes, it is," he murmured in reply. "It's very, very good."

There was something nagging at the back of Don's mind, and it took a while for it to surface. He had almost succumbed to unconsciousness when it hit him, and his eyes flew open. "Javier?" he asked as urgently as he could manage.

Alan's face fell a little. "She's not here. She's come by a couple of times to see how you were doing, but she wouldn't stay long."

"She's…okay?" he managed to voice. He thought he remembered her eyes wide with fear, his hand wiping blood off her face—or had that been during the hurricane?

"She's fine," Alan was saying with a short nod.

"Good." He closed his eyes again. "Saved my life," he murmured, his head rolling to the side as he relaxed against the pillow, the dim memory of a Chicago alleyway drifting through his head.

"That's what the doctor told us," Alan agreed, resuming his gentle touch on Don's forehead. "Sleep now, my son."

And he did.

ooooooooooooooo

The next time he floated up to consciousness, Charlie was the one sitting by his bedside, tapping away on his laptop. He watched for a moment through half-open eyelids, taking in the familiar dark curls and the look of concentration on his brother's features. There had been so many times over the past six months that he'd been sure he'd never see him again, especially after the disastrous visit in Washington. Now, he felt a smile spreading over his face at nothing more than his brother's presence.

He made a soft sound, and Charlie looked over, his face instantly lighting up. "Hey!" He put his laptop on the ground and carefully leaned over, giving Don as much of an embrace as he could with him flat on his back. "How are you feeling?" he asked once he had pulled back.

"Like I got shot," Don muttered, but he couldn't keep the grin off his face at seeing his brother beaming at him. "What time is it?"

"It's, uh, it's about two in the afternoon. On Saturday. Dad went to get lunch, but he'll be back soon."

He reached out for Charlie's arm with as much strength as he could muster. He felt silly asking, but he had to know. "Is—is what Dad said true?"

Charlie grinned again. "Yeah, it's all true." He grabbed Don's hand and squeezed it. "You won't have to send me any more postcards, bro."

He relaxed a fraction and let go of Charlie's hand, still skeptical. He had some idea of the legal machinations involved in getting a convicted felon, well, unconvicted, and it didn't happen overnight. "How'd…how'd it happen so fast?"

Charlie shifted back in his seat. "Well, we figured that there must be some evidence missing from the original crime scene, and that Metzke had something to do with it. Then as soon as that—" he pressed his lips together for a moment—"that bastard heard Tuttle was in custody, he started talking. He had actually kept the forensic evidence in a safety deposit box as some kind of insurance for himself, though in the end he was too afraid of Tuttle to use it. There were a couple of Brock's hairs, a fingerprint of his lifted from your door, and some skin and blood cells that matched his DNA on the inside of the gun from the..." He wrinkled his forehead. "The back-blow?"

"Blowback," Don filled in.

"Yeah, that."

"But Tuttle wasn't in custody till..." He tried to remember what Dad had said about how long he was unconscious. "Three days ago?"

"By now it's almost five days, but yeah."

"You guys have been here that whole time?"

Charlie stared at him. "Don, you've been in custody or on the run for nearly a full year. You almost _died_ a few days ago. Do you think we're going to be anywhere else than with you?"

He shook his head, then wished he hadn't at the slight dizziness that resulted. "Sorry, no, I—" It had been so long since he could count on anyone without having to worry about what might happen to them and to him that he found it hard to believe his family could be here by his side without fear of repercussions. He couldn't voice that to Charlie, but from the sudden understanding on his brother's face, he thought he knew.

His leg was beginning to throb, and he knew he should let Charlie get the doctor to check him out, but he had to understand about Metzke and the evidence or he wouldn't believe it was true. "They got a judge to look at the evidence and…overturn a felony conviction in a couple of days?"

Charlie gave one of those one-shoulder shrugs of his that indicated he was downplaying his own role in whatever it was he was about to say. "There might have been some strings pulled along the way."

Don narrowed his eyes. "By who?"

"Eh, I know guys who know guys."

_Ah, now we're getting there_. "Would any of those guys be named Bob?"

"Might be." Charlie's face was the picture of innocence.

He felt his expression turned cynical as a thought occurred to him. "FBI prob'ly wanted to cover its ass fast as possible."

Charlie tilted his head to the side. "It might have been pointed out to some higher-level officials that the embarrassment the story would cause the Bureau could be reduced if they moved as quickly as possible to exonerate you."

He was still more than a little foggy, and it took longer than it should have to parse that sentence. When he did, he had a brief mental image of Charlie standing in A.D. Wright's office, making vaguely worded threats about unwanted publicity and media attention. "You didn't."

"No, actually, I didn't," he replied sheepishly. "But according to Colby, you put Megan and Dina on the same side making the same argument, and even the Director is going to do whatever they say."

"Dina, huh?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Charlie dropped his head. "Yeah. Look, I know you don't like her very much, and I sure didn't care for her either, but—"

"Naw, she's okay," he murmured, remembering how the intensity of her gaze while he was making that terrible phone call had pulled him through, and more dimly recalling the way she had struggled to keep him conscious and alive before the ambulance arrived.

Both of Charlie's eyebrows went up. "I think you have quite a story to tell me."

He gave a tired smile. "How many months you got?"

Charlie's expression softened and he laid a hand on Don's cheek. "As many as you want."

His smile grew, and he leaned slightly into his brother's touch. "I'm really home, aren't I?" he asked softly, still not quite able to believe it.

Charlie's eyes grew bright. "You're really home, Don," he whispered.

There was a soft knock at the door, and he looked up to see a middle-aged man with a monk's bald spot and a white doctor's coat poking his head in the door. "I'm sorry to intrude, but I heard your voices and I was hoping to take a look at my patient while he was awake for once," he said in a kindly voice.

Charlie reluctantly drew back and stood up. "He's all yours."

The doctor entered the room and came up to Don, hand extended. "I'm Dr. Campbell," he said, giving his hand a firm shake. "Pleased to finally meet you."

"You too," he replied. He nodded at the clipboard at the end of the bed. "How'm I doin'?"

"I'll tell you all the gory details in just a minute," the other man replied, perusing the file in his hand before reaching for the clipboard. "But it looks like you're doing as well as can be expected." He finally stopped reading and looked at Don over the tops of his tortoiseshell glasses. "How do you think you're doing?"

He thought for a moment. Emotionally, he was in such a whirl that he hadn't taken the time to consider his physical condition, and he was still sleepy enough that it took a while to take an inventory of his body. "I'm all right," he finally replied.

There was a soft snort from Charlie's direction, and when both men turned to look at him, he held up his hands. "Sorry, but I had the feeling you were going to say that."

Dr. Campbell smiled. "Yes, well, law enforcement officers are often our toughest patients." He turned back to Don. "So. The short version is, you're obviously going to live, and you have your fellow agent to thank for that. Now, the bullet went pretty far into your leg because of the angle at which the gun was fired, and it took us a while to get it out, which might have caused a little anxiety for the group of your well-wishers clustered in the waiting room." Don's eyes flickered to Charlie and saw the shadow of remembered worry and fear on his face. _You've got a story to tell me, too_, he thought, and gave his brother a reassuring smile. He was glad to see it returned, if a bit faintly.

"We had to do a little patching along the way that may or may not affect your long-term mobility; it's too soon to tell." Dr. Campbell cocked his head to the side. "Were you planning on returning to your job?"

Don narrowed his eyes. The other man had to know who he was, if his comments about being a agent were any indication, in which case his question seemed pretty stupid. Then he saw the knowing look on the doctor's face, and he realized the man was trying to give him some privacy and treat him like any other patient. "I don't know," he said quietly, feeling Charlie's gaze boring into him.

"Well, we'll have to wait and see about that. Everything else is already on its way to healing: a couple of bruised ribs, a contusion to your knee, a sprained ankle that's been repeatedly strained but should heal in time, and the bump to your head." Don reached up to feel a slight protrusion over his right eye where Brock had knocked him out, and he winced. "Yes, it will hurt when you press on it," Dr. Campbell said with a hint of annoyance. "Contusions are like that."

His eyes shot to Charlie, who was suppressing a smirk. Then he leaned his head back against the pillow. "When can I get out of here?" he asked, thwarted from sounding firm and in command when a yawn threatened to split his jaw.

"Now, how did I know you were going to ask that?" The doctor's warm tone of voice belied his exasperated words. "A couple of more days. You had a very serious injury, on top of what appears to be a lack of rest and proper nutrition, and your body needs time to heal." He tilted his head towards Charlie. "Don't worry, there are plenty of people here to take good care of you."

"Besides, it's easier to keep the reporters away here than at home," Charlie said, then colored a little when Don lifted an eyebrow at him. That was something he really didn't want to think about.

Dr. Campbell was leaning over and putting a hand on his shoulder. "You get some more rest. That's the best thing you can do right now."

Charlie held up a finger at Don to indicate he'd be back, and followed the doctor out the door. Don watched them go and sank back against the pillows, exhausted once again. How many times over the past several months had he longed for the chance to lie still and not have to worry about his immediate future or long-term survival, not have to keep possible escape routes at the front of his mind, not always be ready to move on as soon as he thought someone recognized him? And now that he had the chance to relax and stay put, he couldn't wait to get up and get moving again.

He chuckled to himself and closed his eyes, taking a slow, deep breath. Charlie and Dad would be back in a few minutes to keep watching over him. It was okay to rest.

ooooooooooooooo

A/N: I can hear those happy sighs all the way from here. :)


	31. 15b: The Road Home

A/N: Wow, that last half-chapter really brought a lot of people out of the woodwork. Thanks for the reviews! And Lila, you know how to make an author feel good, although I admit that I'm a little sad that things are drawing to a close, too. Don't worry, it'll still take a while to wrap up all of the loose ends.

Disclaimer, acknowledgments, prologue, etc., etc.

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12:10 P.M.  
Huntington Memorial Hospital

The third time Don woke up, he felt like he was actually awake. The clock on the wall that he hadn't noticed before showed a time just after twelve. The sunlight slipping in around the edges of the blinds told him that must be after noon. He was alone in the room, but in a few seconds, the door opened. When Alan saw that his eyes were open, his face lit up. "Don! Oh, just a minute." The door shut and he disappeared.

Don took the opportunity to run through a mental inventory of his injuries. The headache was almost gone, the ribs and knee fading away to nearly nothing as well. His ankle felt stiff when he wiggled it around, but it was obviously better. That left his thigh, which was down to a dull roar. He frowned as he remembered what Dr. Campbell said about his mobility possibly being limited. He'd face that bridge when he came to it; right now, he was feeling pretty glad to be alive and safe.

The door swung open, Alan's hand holding it out for someone. Megan was standing in front of him, grinning at Don. "Hey, you."

Don felt a wide smile stretch across his face, the kind of smile he hadn't felt in months. "Hey, Megan."

She came forward cautiously, but when he held out his arms she bent down to give him a fierce hug. She was still beaming when she pulled away, sliding her hands down his arms to hold onto his hands with both of hers. Alan pushed the chair in behind her and gestured that he'd be right back. Don gave him a nod and started to say something, then noticed the diamond flashing on her left hand. "So when did that happen?"

She flushed. "A few months ago."

"Congratulations," he grinned. "When's the date?"

She squeezed his hands. "We were waiting to set the date until a good friend of ours came back home."

Don had to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat. "You might have been waiting a long time," he said quietly.

Megan shook her head. "We had faith," she said just as softly.

He squeezed back and let her hands go, reaching back to pile up the pillows behind him. She helped him make the necessary adjustments so it was easier to sit up. When he was done, he looked at her and said with as much sincerity as he could, "Thank you. For everything."

She understood that he wasn't talking about the pillows. "I only wish we could have done more sooner," she said sadly.

"Hey, better late then never, right?"

She smiled wanly. "You did pretty good yourself. You know, when I heard your voice on the phone…." She shook her head. "I didn't think we would ever see you again."

"I don't suppose I did either," he replied, not wanting to think about the terrible time right after he'd escaped the sheriff's bus, with nowhere to go and no one to turn to. Instead he said, "What can you tell me about Tuttle?"

He'd never seen Megan's eyes go so hard. "Besides the fact that he's got so many damn lawyers around him that we haven't been able to say a word to him since he was arrested? If it weren't for Metzke spilling his guts, we wouldn't have had anything to clear you with."

His mouth tightened. "Well, he's not getting out of this one. Kind of hard to argue with two witnesses, one of whom he was about thirty seconds away from strangling to death."

She turned her head slightly, her gaze sharpening. Don could recognize the profiler in her coming to the fore. "Strangling?"

He blinked. "Yeah, that's how he was trying to kill Javier. She didn't mention that?"

"Not the method, no. She still has to give a formal statement to me later today, but all she ever said to me was that the two of you were about to be killed when you both started to fight."

He nibbled on his lower lip, trying to remember. "Tuttle said something about a serial killer who had gone after her before?"

In a few sentences, Megan sketched out Dina's past experience and her consequent phobia of anything coming close to her neck. When she was done, Don's hands had clenched into fists. "That bastard," he hissed.

Megan drew in a deep breath. "I'll have to talk to her."

"So you're actually on speaking terms now?" he said inquiringly.

She rolled her eyes. "Well, now that she's being reasonable."

The corner of his mouth quirked up and she matched the smirk before her face turned serious. "Listen, Don, will you be able to come into the office to make a statement, or should one of us come to you?"

This was the moment he'd been waiting for ever since she stepped into his hospital room, and he took a deep breath. "A statement about what, exactly?"

Megan studied his face for a moment before speaking. "To gather evidence against Tuttle and to verify that you shot Brock in self-defense."

He steeled himself. "And the rest?"

"What rest?" Her face was a little too blank, a little too expressionless.

"Megan," he said warningly. _Don't make me say it out loud_, he thought. _There's fleeing the police and assaulting the same federal agent multiple times, for starters._

"Alan told you that your conviction was overturned, didn't he?"

"Yes, but—"

She held up a hand. "The Bureau has no interest in pursuing any other possible charges related to you, and neither do any of its agents."

Now he was really confused. Hopeful, but confused. "Can they do that?"

"Something about 'limited funds and inadequate manpower,' I think." Her lips twitched for a moment before her tone turned cynical. "Combined with a healthy dose of ass-covering to avoid a lawsuit for wrongful imprisonment, if there's any truth to the rumor mill."

"And that rumor mill wouldn't be functioning on the basis of a conversation between you and Javier and the Director, would it?"

"I'm pleading the fifth on that one," she said with a sly look on her face. Then she leaned forward with a more serious expression and laid a hand on his arm. "You don't have to worry about any sort of action being taken for anything that you've done since Liz's death. It really is over, Don."

He searched her eyes for a moment, wanting desperately to believe her. "What about for anyone who might have helped me? Hypothetically speaking."

She bit her lip. "No one's going to go looking to get anybody in trouble, but it might be best to keep any hypothetical details to a minimum."

"So this statement really is only about what happened at Javier's house?"

"And what led up to it," she added. "Whatever is necessary to explaining how the four of you ended up there, Tuttle ended up in handcuffs, and Brock ended up dead."

He laid back against the pillows and thought for a minute. They already knew that he'd talked to Nicole Scott in Sacramento, if not how he'd found her in the first place. They already knew how his path had diverged from Brock's in Indiana, and that it was Brock's ambush that had brought him to L.A. "All right," he said slowly. "Whenever the doctors say I'm free to go."

"We can come to you," she offered again.

He shook his head. The last time he'd been in the FBI building, he'd left in handcuffs in the back of a sheriff's van on his way to the downtown lockup before his trial. He didn't want that to be his last memory of the place where he'd done so much good work and spent time with so many good people. "I can handle it," he said.

She smiled. "Good. We'll see you there."

ooooooooooooooooo

3:14 P.M.  
L.A. FBI Field Office

"Thanks for coming in on a Sunday," Dina said as she sat down in the conference room chair.

Megan gave her a smile as she readied the paper, pen, and digital recorder she'd brought in with her. "I should be saying the same thing to you."

The other woman shrugged and said, "I've put this off long enough."

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine." She must have caught Megan's sideways glance, for she went on, "A little tired and headachy now and again, but other than that, I'm fine."

She nodded. She wasn't going to get much out of her unless she came out and asked, but then she wouldn't have expected anything else from the tight-lipped agent. It was one of the reasons she had asked to be the one to take Dina's statement: she could observe her and read between the lines better than anyone else on the team, probably better than anyone else in the office, for that matter. Based on what Don had told her this morning and what Dina _hadn't_ told her last week, she was wondering how much reading between the lines she was going to have to do.

They started with Dina's arrival at home six days ago and how she had realized something wasn't right, but not in time to defend herself. Megan could hear the frustration that she wasn't speaking aloud, the embarrassment she wasn't verbalizing at being overpowered in her own home. Then she related what had happened when she came to: her conversation with Don, their attempt to outmaneuver Brock, and the scene when they were forced downstairs.

"Tuttle tried to get Don to think that I was somehow part of it with them, but he didn't buy it." Dina's brow wrinkled as if she was trying to remember something. "Then Don said that he was the one who put Charlie up to writing that article that exposed the whole election fraud plot, but that's not true, is it?"

Megan shook her head, feeling a fond smile stretching across her face. "He must have been trying to protect Charlie."

"He seems to do a lot of that," Dina murmured.

"He's a classic older brother," she shrugged in reply. "Sometimes I think he made it into his job because he's so good at it."

Dina's eyes briefly clouded over with regret. "He certainly was doing the best he could in front of Tuttle."

"That would be the phone call?"

"Right." She took a deep breath. "Tuttle told Don that he wanted him to say he was holding me hostage, and Don refused. Brock put a gun to his head, started to pull the trigger, and he still refused."

Megan was writing down the words, but in her mind she was picturing Don holding steadfast in the face of such a daunting threat. It was a pretty easy picture to see. And a terrifying one. "So what happened?"

"I'm sure you saw the folder that was open on the table?" She nodded, and Dina went on, "Well, he threatened Charlie and Mr. Eppes. And then…." She trailed off and folded her hands in front of her on the table. "You know, I remember being told at Quantico that sometimes we would be put in situations where we would have to do things that we couldn't imagine doing under normal circumstances in order to stay alive, to stall long enough for backup to arrive or to go along with someone who's threatening us until an opportunity opens up." She looked up and Megan nodded encouragingly, knowing exactly what the other woman was talking about. "I guess I've had to do something like that once or twice, but nothing as extreme as this."

"So for the record—they were going to kill you or Don if he didn't make that phone call?" she asked.

"No, they were going to kill us anyway," Dina retorted. "They were going to abduct and harm Charlie and Alan Eppes if he didn't make that call."

"Just making it clear for A.D. Wright," she said, putting a touch of venom in her voice as she wrote.

Dina's eyes narrowed. "He didn't really think—"

She looked up, letting the grim expression on her face speak for her. Then she flinched when Dina leaned forward and pounded a fist on the table. "That idiot!"

"Do you want me to write that down, too?" Megan asked with a straight face, her eyes flickering towards the digital recorder and back.

"Sure," she replied, her tone still furious. "How the hell could he think that Don would do something like that?"

Megan's raised eyebrow was her only reply.

Dina stared at her for a second. "Oh, God," she muttered, hand to her mouth. "Would you listen to me?"

Her lips were twitching. "I'm not going to say a word," she said as a stray song lyric floated through her head. _And isn't it ironic...don't you think?_

Dina was shaking her head. "Look, you know what it's like being a woman in this job. You know how often someone accuses you of being emotional or going with your feelings rather than the evidence, or on the other hand, crediting you with 'women's intuition' rather than having a brain. Right?"

She nodded and put her pen down. "That's one of the reasons I went into profiling," she admitted. "So they would stop giving me crap about considering people's reactions and emotional responses if it was something that was part of my job description."

Dina's head tilted slightly. "But you're really good at it. Profiling, I mean."

She let a little gleam come into her eye. "That's the other reason I went into it."

Dina smiled, and then her expression turned serious. "I told you once, right here in this very room, how hard experience had taught me to go with the evidence rather than character assessments." She nodded, and Dina went on, "Now, I guess I've had hard experience the other way." She let out a soft snort. "One of these days, I'll get it right."

"You got it right in time," she said seriously. "That's what counts."

Dina looked thoughtful for a moment. "Yeah, maybe I did," she said. "But I wouldn't have without Don's help."

Megan put a questioning expression on her face and picked up her pen again. Dina continued to talk about how Tuttle had threatened them and then tried to kill her, with plenty of detail about what he had done and what he had said, and how Don had jolted her out of her trance and gotten them both out of their dire situation. She spoke clearly and calmly, although Megan detected a slight tremble in her voice two times: once when she first mentioned the scarf being wrapped around her neck, and once when she talked about waiting for the EMTs and trying to keep Don alive. "And then you arrived." _You know the rest_, was the unspoken subtext.

She finished writing down the details and looked up. "Anything else?"

Dina shrugged a shoulder. "I'm sure I'll think of other details later, but I know where to find you."

"Yeah, you do." Megan reached out to turn off the tape recorder and leaned back in her chair. "And you know where to find me if you need to talk about _anything_, right?"

The other woman looked at her for a moment, her expression indicating that she knew exactly what Megan meant. She expected her to brush it off, to state bluntly that she would be fine, and to stand up and walk away. Instead, Dina tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and said, "I need to process some things myself first, but yeah, I know that. And I really appreciate it."

Megan held back a startled expression, turning it at the last second into a warm smile. "Good," she said.

Dina smiled back. "Thank you," she said, extending her hand across the table.

They shook hands, and only then did Dina stand up and leave the room. Megan watched her go, jotting down a few stray thoughts that had occurred to her in the last few minutes, and then propping her chin on her fist and looking out over the empty bullpen. She wondered for a moment about the bond that had apparently formed between Don and his former pursuer during their brief captivity and arduous struggle. She couldn't wait to read Don's statement and see how closely it matched up with what Dina had told her.

The overhead lights flashed off the small diamond on her left hand, and she smiled. Finally, she and Larry could start talking about a wedding date. Neither of them had had any hesitation about waiting until Don was safe and sound, although it had caused her some grief with her family. They thought she was either indulging in wishful thinking or expressing cold feet in a particularly creative way. "You don't know Don," she had snapped at her mother, who had finally washed her hands of the matter in her typically over-dramatic fashion. Now, she was ecstatic not only to be vindicated, but to have assurances that her mother would be out of the picture during the planning process.

The _ding!_ of the elevator caught her attention, and she looked over to see Dina disappearing from view. _And you don't know Agent Javier_, she mentally added. _With her in Don's corner, there was no way he was going to lose._

oooooooooooooooo

A/N: Remember, part 3 to Chapter 15 is still coming up…


	32. 15c: The Road Home

A/N: Be patient and all of your questions will be answered. There's a lot of winding down to go yet. :)

Disclaimer and acknowledgments are in the prologue.

oooooooooooooooo

Wednesday, July 2, 2008  
6:55 P.M.  
L.A. FBI Field Office

Don lowered himself into the chair, stacking his crutches against the table and waving off David's offer of help. Two to three months on crutches, Dr. Campbell had projected when he was released from the hospital yesterday. He was going to have to get used to this limited way of getting around, and the sooner the better, as far as he was concerned.

He looked up and saw David grinning at him. "What?"

"Man, it's so good to see you," the other man replied, shaking his head.

He couldn't help but smile back. "Yeah, you too." They'd embraced earlier when the elevator doors had opened on the fifth floor, Don determinedly focusing his attention on Charlie beside him and David in front of him rather than the familiar but strange space of the bullpen. He might have wanted to come down here, but he had wanted to avoid as many people as possible, thus the relatively late hour. He wasn't sure what he was going to feel entering this office again, and the fewer people to contend with while he was doing it, the better.

"Colby wanted to come down, too, but he and Megan got called out to interview a suspect." David leaned forward slightly. "I think he still feels bad about chasing after you in Indiana."

"No, no, I understand," Don said, lowering his brow. "He had a job to do, and so did you. I would have thought less of him if he hadn't."

"I told him that's what you'd say," David replied, one eyebrow raised. Then his face turned serious. "Look, Don, I need to apologize to you."

"No, you don't," he replied quickly.

The other man continued on as if he hadn't spoken. "I don't know what I would have done in your position, and God knows I hope I never have to find out." His dark brown eyes bored into Don's own. "But I saw what you were doing as running away, not running towards something, towards helping yourself. I should have thought better of you, and I'm sorry."

Don reached across the table and laid a hand on David's forearm. "I'm not sorry I ran out on you guys, because I didn't think I had a choice. Based on what's happened since, I think I was right. I _am_ sorry that I put you in a position where you felt like you had to choose."

David was shaking his head. "There was no question of that," he said firmly, shifting so the two of them were clasping each others' forearms. "I was always on your side."

"I know," Don answered quietly. The two of them looked at each other for another moment, and then pulled apart.

"So, uh, you ready?"

Don nodded. "Let's do it."

He talked for almost an hour, detailing what had happened from the moment he saw Alex Brock in Sacramento—and not a second before—until he finished that nightmarish phone call to the Assistant Director. David's expression grew darker as he listened, his mouth tightening as Don described the threat to his family that had precipitated the call. "We figured it was something like that. Can't wait to see Wright eat his words."

Don cocked his head towards him. "Eat what words?"

David shifted in his chair. "He, uh, apparently he believed what you said."

He pressed his lips together. "Shit."

"That was pretty much our reaction, yeah."

_Probably couldn't come back here even if I wanted to_, Don thought, looking past his former team member to the nearly empty bullpen on the other side of the glass. There were only a few figures moving around this time of the evening, no one that he knew, but he was still happier if no one else knew he was here.

Especially if the damn Assistant Director had actually thought he was holding Javier hostage.

David was clearing his throat. "So then what happened?"

He dropped his gaze to the table. "Then the bastard started talking about how Javier had this bad experience with a serial killer, and he started winding this scarf around her neck. Really slowly, to make her freak out."

"And which bastard would that be?" David asked with a perfectly straight face.

His head shot up. Normally, he didn't approve of taking such a light tone when taking someone's statement, but given the dark places his memory was sliding into, he appreciated it. "That would be Tuttle," he said with an equally straight expression.

David nodded solemnly and made a note. "Go on."

He shrugged a shoulder. "I got her attention and gave her a signal. On three, we moved."

The other man was looking at him disbelievingly. "What, you made up a plan and communicated it telepathically?"

He frowned. "We didn't have a whole lot of options, David. I mean, Tuttle had to know that you guys were looking for us with the GPS chip in her phone, and that meant they had to move fast. Besides, he'd told us what they were planning on doing, and I don't think it would have taken very long."

"Which was?" David knew full well what it was, but it had to be said out loud to appear in the official statement.

Don bit his lip. "They wanted to set it up so it looked like I killed her and then shot myself." For a second, he could feel Brock's gun—no, Javier's gun—pressing into the side of his head, and he closed his eyes. He wondered if the forensic evidence would have been examined closely enough to show that he hadn't actually wrapped the scarf around Javier's neck, that he hadn't actually pulled the trigger and blown his own brains out, or if the words he'd been forced to say on the phone would have led to the easy conclusion that Tuttle wanted the authorities to draw. He gave a shudder and opened his eyes.

David was looking at him compassionately. "You know we never would have believed that."

"Yeah, well, I didn't want to find out the hard way, you know?" he said with raised eyebrows.

A smile flickered across David's face and then was gone. "So you made your move."

"Right."

David made a circular motion with his left hand. "Which was…?"

He looked down at the tabletop again, as if the answer was written there. His memory was still slightly hazy about those last few minutes, but he thought he could piece it together. "I reached up for the gun." He raised two fingers to his temple to indicate where the weapon had been. "I managed to knock it out of the way and get my hands on the barrel. And then we fought for it."

"So he was standing behind you?"

"Yeah." He squinted, trying to remember. "I think—" He raised his hands over his right shoulder, wrists clasped together. "I think I was trying to pull it in front of me, to flip him if I could, to get the gun away if I couldn't. Of course, he only had one hand on the gun, so he grabbed my neck and tried to choke me. I tried to bend forward, and then…then he pulled the trigger."

"That's when you were shot?"

"Yeah." The white-hot pain blazing through his leg was certainly unforgettable, and he unconsciously reached down to rub the top of his thigh. Even worse, though, had been the bitter despair that followed as he realized what had happened and what was likely to happen next. "And then—" He briefly pressed a fist to his lips. "After all I'd been through, after all the things I'd gotten away from, I couldn't go down like that, you know?" His eyes flickered up to David's. "I just couldn't."

"So what did you do?" he asked gently.

His shoulders lifted slightly. "I don't know. I remember falling to the ground, and I remember holding onto that gun with everything I had, and then firing it, and…" He shook his head. "If I hadn't hit him then, I wouldn't have gotten a second chance."

David nodded. "It was a good shot."

"It was a damn lucky shot." He was silent for a moment. "I don't remember much else. Just Javier trying to keep me awake, and my leg hurting like a, well, you know."

"I can imagine," David replied quietly. "When we got to Javier's place…." He shook his head. "Man, all I could think was that after making it across the country and back, there was no way you were going to check out so close to home. That just wasn't right."

He gave a tired smile. "I was thinking the same thing."

David asked a few more questions about Tuttle's role in events, and Don answered as best as he could remember. It was so frustrating to have this fog over his memory, but Dr. Campbell had reassured him that it was perfectly normal after such a trauma for the mind to block parts of it out. He hoped he wasn't missing out on any vital evidence that they needed to nail Tuttle, but David assured him that Javier's statement was already pretty damning, on top of what Metzke had provided about the larger conspiracy.

Then they talked for a while about nothing related to the case. He got caught up on David's personal life, and then on Colby's—not that there was that much to catch up on for either one—and then a little bit about what life had been like in the office over the past few months. Charlie came by and knocked on the glass, and David waved him in. They chatted for a few more minutes, Don pleased to see that the bonds between Charlie and his teammates were stronger than ever.

Then Charlie turned to him with an apologetic look. "Hey, I told Dad we'd be back by nine, and it's almost that time already."

"Alan probably didn't want to let you out of his sight long enough to come down here, did he?" David asked with a smile.

Don shook his head ruefully. "Can't say that I blame him," he said softly.

The three of them made their way outside, Don struggling with the crutches. David said his farewells and promised to come by the Eppes house with Colby soon. "I'll hold you to that," Don warned.

He watched David go, then stopped and looked around the quiet bullpen. He could almost hear the echoes of himself here: issuing commands to his team, arguing with Charlie, silently laughing at the byplay between Colby and David, thanking his lucky stars that he'd made it through another day with his body and soul intact. He even let the memories wash over him of the last several times he'd been here: on the other side of the interrogation glass, hands cuffed beneath the table, tired and afraid and confused and wishing that it would all be over.

Now it _was_ all over. And he didn't know what he should feel.

A hand fell on his arm, and he flinched. Charlie drew back quickly and said, "Are you all right?"

He looked down at his brother. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Charlie looked at him skeptically but nodded. "Okay then, let's go."

He nodded and pivoted on his good leg, ready to make his way down the corridor. Then he saw the only other person still on the floor. She was halfway across the bullpen, walking towards them. She looked up, saw them coming, and paused. Then with a brusque nod, she turned towards the elevators.

"Javier," Don called. When she looked up, he jerked his head towards the break room, the old habits of command coming back all too easily. She paused for a moment, then turned in the direction he indicated, not meeting his eyes as she did so.

He looked after her for a moment, then over at Charlie, who was regarding him with a speculative look. "What?"

His brother shrugged. "I'll be down in the car whenever you're ready."

"Sure." He watched Charlie head towards the elevators, then swung himself down the corridor towards the break room. Javier was waiting by the door and held it for him, following him inside before folding her arms over her chest.

The last time he'd seen her, he was losing both blood and consciousness at an alarming rate on her dining room floor, vaguely aware that she might have been hurt, but unable to focus on anything but the fire pulsing through his leg. Now, except for a faint red mark across her neck that he probably wouldn't have seen without knowing to look for it, and the fading yellow-grey bruise at her temple, there were no physical remnants left of her encounter with Brock and Tuttle.

The memory flashed through his mind of the agonizing pain that he'd felt while she pushed down on his leg, keeping him alive long enough for the paramedics to get to him, and he swallowed. "I want to thank you—"

"I'm sorry," she blurted at the same moment.

Their eyes met, and they both said, "For what?" in slightly incredulous tones.

She leaned back against the door frame as if to distance herself from him. "God, do you even have to ask, Eppes?"

He shifted his weight, trying to keep the crutches from digging into his arms. "I don't know. For what?"

She looked out into the empty bullpen. "Seeing you here…it's where you belong. You should be here with your team, you should be leading your team. Because of me, you're not, and you probably never will be again. There's so much that's been taken away from you, and…I'm sorry."

He scoffed. "If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be here at all."

"Whatever," she said, rolling her eyes.

He would have reached out to touch her arm, but that would have meant letting go of one of the crutches, and he didn't trust his balance enough to do that. "Listen, you were right about Tuttle; he would have found some other way to get to me. Maybe through Charlie or our dad, maybe a knife in the back while I was in custody, who knows. The point is, if anyone less dedicated than you had been in charge of the case, he'd have gotten away with it."

She raised her eyebrows. "Is 'dedicated' a nice way of saying 'stubborn'?"

"Hey, whatever works," he replied.

"Thank you for saying that," she replied.

_But it's not enough_, he could read in her eyes. He didn't know why he was trying to make her feel better. He could hardly be blamed if he hated her with a passion for everything he'd been through in the past year, but there it was. Part of it was gratitude for saving his life, part of it was professionalism towards a fellow agent, part of it was—

"They took something away from you, too, didn't they?" he asked in sudden understanding.

Her head shot up. "I don't know what you mean."

Thinking out loud, he went on, "You're not the kind of person who's gonna sit around feeling sorry for herself, right? You're blaming yourself for a lot of things that were out of your control—but maybe that's_ why_ you're blaming yourself. You thought the world worked a certain way, that the Bureau worked a certain way, and that rug got yanked out from under you."

"I'm thirty-seven years old," she snapped back. "I've been an FBI agent for nearly fifteen years. It's a little late to say I've lost my innocence."

Don was shaking his head. He'd thought about this so many times over the past year: the multiple times he wanted to scream at her during an interrogation for not believing him, the time in the hurricane that he wanted to grab her and shake her and make her see that he was not who she thought he was. But he'd known all too well that chasing down a fugitive had nothing to do with determining guilt or innocence; it was a job. He'd known that conducting an investigation couldn't be colored by personal feelings or hunches if the evidence was clear, and thanks to Tuttle's manipulations, it _had_ been clear. In her position, he might well have come to the same conclusions and pursued the same suspect with the same sense of justice and righteousness.

And he knew what realizing the truth would have done to him.

He took a step forward, the crutches creaking. "They've made you question your judgment," he said, looking at her intently, the words coming out as fast as he figured out the truth behind them. "You've been an agent for nearly fifteen years, and a good one at that. And now you don't know that you can trust your own judgment about suspects or entire cases because you saw in me only what they wanted you to see." He lowered his voice. "That's what they've taken away from you."

She stared at him, her golden-brown eyes searching his, a series of emotions flitting across her face so quickly that he couldn't begin to describe them. "Do you know," she finally said carefully, "how damn annoying it is for you not only to be right, but to be so understanding about it?"

"I could be a jerk about it if you want," he responded with a raised eyebrow.

She gave a sardonic smile. "It might make things easier."

"Yeah, well, believe me, I have my moments," he said darkly, thinking of everything that he'd lost over the past year.

She regarded him for a few seconds. "Say you're right," she said quietly. "What am I supposed to do now?"

He blew out a breath. "Well, you've got a team you can trust who seems to respect you quite a bit."

"Actually, I no longer have a team except for Chad, but yes, I suppose there are people here whom I can rely on."

"Is that so rare for you?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

She tilted her head to the side. "You have no idea how many people in this office were on your side, do you? And how many of them would only work with me if their lives depended on it?"

He'd never thought of that. Once he'd met up with Charlie in Washington, he'd been sure that his old team was behind him. But he'd never thought about the rest of the office, and it was nice to think that he'd had more supporters than he might have known. "Give them time," was all he said. "As far as they all know, you've been hunting me down this entire time and Tuttle just fell into your lap."

"Or into my house, as the case may be," she muttered. But her expression was less bleak than it had been.

There was a pause, and Don tried to think of something else to say. Finally, Dina broke the awkward silence. "So what are you going to do now?"

He looked past her into the empty bullpen, feeling a pang at how much he missed it, at how much he would have to keep on missing it. He didn't see how he could come back, even if the doctors hadn't told him that he was likely to suffer a permanent limp in his left leg. He'd still think about it, but right now he would have to say that the odds of him coming back to lead his team weren't very good. "Right now," he said, deliberately misinterpreting her question, "I'm going to go downstairs and have Charlie drive me home and spend some time with my family."

"That sounds good." She looked at him for a long moment, then laid a hand on his arm. "Take care of yourself, Eppes," she said quietly. Then she turned around, pushed the door open, and left.

He watched her walk to the elevators and pace back and forth as she waited. When the car came, she stepped inside and disappeared, never looking back at him. He let out a breath as the doors closed. Never in a million years would he have expected to be trying to comfort Geraldina Javier. He certainly wasn't grudge-free as far as she was concerned; it was still hard to believe that she could have been so set in her belief that he was guilty for so long, especially if what she said was true about the rest of the office supporting him.

Then a memory came to mind of standing in this same room, talking to David about his childhood friend who was suspected of murder. _I had a case I put a guy away for ten years: wrong guy. I mean, a day doesn't go by it doesn't pop into my head at some point._ It had certainly popped into his head enough times over the past twelve months. Don shook his head. He'd made mistakes, too, had ruined an innocent man's life by strictly following the evidence. Maybe he hadn't forgiven Javier yet, but he could see it happening in time.

Don sighed and started to make his way to the elevators. He wasn't remotely used to the crutches, but he was willing to be patient with himself as he adjusted to this new way of moving. _Not like I have anything else to do_, he grumbled as he balanced himself long enough to press the button for the elevator. He shook his head to clear it of those thoughts. There would be plenty of time to consider his future later. Right now, he was going home.

He rode down to the garage and was glad to see Charlie waiting right outside the elevator in his Prius. Don backed himself into the vehicle and handed the crutches off to his brother, who stowed them in the backseat. "Everything okay?" Charlie asked as he climbed back into the driver's seat.

"Yeah, I'm good." He knew Charlie was asking about his conversation with Dina, but he didn't feel like talking about it. Sometimes shared experiences needed to stay between the people who had shared them, especially in life-or-death situations. He'd described to David what had happened in their showdown with Tuttle, and he knew his former teammates would be comparing notes and doing a lot of reading between the lines in order to piece together exactly what had happened there in her house.

He also knew that they wouldn't get the whole story. That was something to remain in his memory: the way that two people who had started out mistrusting and fearing each other for all they were worth had ended up relying on each other in an impossible situation and saving each others' lives.

"All set?" Charlie asked as he turned the key in the ignition.

Don clapped his brother on the shoulder and was rewarded with a warm smile. "Come on, buddy," he said. "Let's go home."

ooooooooooooooooo

A/N: Still a few pieces to go…still want to know what you think!


	33. 16a: Walk On

A/N: Last chapter. Sniff.

Writing this story helped me get through a difficult couple of months in my life, first by allowing me to escape into a state of denial and then by simply providing a nice distraction from everything going on around me. I'm grateful to all of the characters, especially Dina, for cooperating so nicely and allowing me to meet a NaNoWriMo pace for two-and-a-half months straight. If I could write my academic papers as quickly as I wrote this story (and get them published as quickly as Charlie does), I'd have tenure in no time!

Once more, with feeling: disclaimer and acknowledgments are in the prologue. Special thanks to Sally, "Gina," Judy, "Meg," the woman in the elevator, "Simone," the woman on the subway, and "Nicole" for agreeing to appear in this story.

ooooooooooooooooo

Chapter 16: Walk On

Sunday, July 27, 2008  
4:31 P.M.  
Eppes house

Don sat beside the koi pond, crutches on the grass beside him, left leg stretched out in front of him and arms wrapped around his bent right knee, watching the fish swim back and forth. It had been nearly a month since his running had come to an end, a month of answering questions and filling out paperwork and growing more and more astonished at how much work his colleagues and family had gone through to get him back home. When he had woken up in the hospital, hearing what had been going on while he had been running across the country and getting abducted by Alex Brock, all he had cared about were those magic words his father had spoken: "conviction overturned" and "free." Since then, he'd been piecing together how those magic words had come about, and it was still something of an amazement.

Tom Metzke had struck a plea bargain to tell everything he knew in exchange for a lighter sentence and protection from any tendrils of power that J. Everett Tuttle might still have waving about. He had explained that right about the time he and Boudreaux started to worry that Liz's investigation was going to identify them, Don and his team had been foiling Tuttle's plot. Shortly thereafter, they'd been contacted by the billionaire, who, in his unsuccessful attempts to find some kind of dirt on Don to stop him from pursuing the election fraud case, had uncovered their own illicit activities. After being further thwarted by Charlie's article, Tuttle had suggested they rearrange the evidence so as to frame Don for the corruption charges and claim that Liz was trying to cover it up, thus discrediting her and keeping themselves clear.

Then Metzke's late night search through Liz's computer files made it clear that she was almost ready to name them as the subject of her investigation, and when he overheard her making an appointment with the Director of the L.A. field office, he knew their gig was up. He informed Boudreaux, who informed Tuttle, who promptly suggested that instead of framing Don for bribery and evidence tampering, they frame him for murder. He'd realized later that this must have been the billionaire's plan all along: to get revenge on Don while doing a favor for the two corrupt FBI agents, thus giving him an in with the Bureau for possible future investigations. By then, it was too late, and Metzke was tasked with keeping the wool firmly over Javier's eyes and making sure Don was arrested and convicted.

When he'd heard the full story, Don realized that it explained so many things: the timing of Liz's murder, the complete lack of evidence that Alex Brock was at his apartment, the hit man they'd sent after him, and how lucky Charlie was that Tuttle thought he had published that article at Don's instigation. Part of him knew Liz would be pleased that the guilty parties she had been about to identify had gotten what was coming to them, but the rest of him was worried about the one man who still had to be held accountable. Tuttle's lawyers continued to block all of the FBI's attempts to ask him more than a few basic questions, although the Bureau was gathering evidence against him from other sources. He knew there would be a long road ahead in terms of getting the man convicted, but he was willing to do whatever it took to make it happen, and he knew Javier and his former team were, too.

Now, surprisingly, after his long and lonely months away from home, Don found himself seeking out solitude whenever he could. He didn't know if it was because he had gotten used to it, or if it was because he still felt the taint of having been a wanted felon, the reluctance to get to close to anyone lest it bring them trouble. Or maybe it was that he still didn't quite feel like part of the human community, that no one else could possibly understand what it had been like for him. Whatever the reason, no one seemed to bother him when he came out here, although he did notice the curtains in the living room twitching regularly as Charlie or their father checked up on him.

There was a rustle of footsteps on the grass, and he reflexively swung around, lifting himself off the ground in preparation for moving away. When he saw who it was, he paused and then sank back down onto the ground, part of him noting how ironic a reaction it was.

"Your dad said I could find you out here," Dina said, coming a few steps closer. She gave a self-deprecating smile. "I'm still surprised he speaks to me civilly, considering what I put all of you through."

Don cocked his head to the side. "I've made the case to him that if it weren't for you, I'd still be out there somewhere." He made a vague gesture encompassing the world beyond the backyard, then turned it into a gesture towards the grass next to him. "Have a seat."

He hadn't seen her since their conversation in the FBI office nearly four weeks ago. In the meantime, she'd called him a couple of times with updates about the case or requests for additional information. She'd asked how he was recuperating and seemed genuinely interested in his welfare. Their conversations had been, if not necessarily friendly, at least cordial, and he was only slightly surprised to see her here in person.

She was wearing a flowered green sundress, and he realized as she gracefully folded her legs to sit beside him that he'd never seen her wearing something that wasn't either office-professional or field gear. "Special occasion?" he asked, nodding at the fabric draped across her knees.

"You're just not used to seeing me outside the office," she answered. When he raised his eyebrows, she gave a small laugh. "Okay, that was a pretty ridiculous thing to say, wasn't it?"

The corners of his mouth turned up. "So how's it going in the office?"

"Better," she replied. "You were right—once more of the story came out, people have been more understanding. I've even had a couple of agents volunteer to be part of my team." She cast him a sideways glance. "Their background checks are going to be _very_ thorough, let me tell you."

He stared at her for a moment before realizing she had made a joke. "Well, maybe you can dig out Charlie's analysis and run through it again for connections to any other corruption suspects."

"Maybe." She looked down at the koi. "On the other hand, maybe I should just transfer back out of Los Angeles."

"Why's that?"

"Well, it's not like I can look forward to much in the way of career advancement here." She plucked a blade of grass and started tearing it into smaller bits. "Supervising someone who turns out to be working against you and everything the FBI stands for is kind of a career-killer."

"It wasn't your fault," Don replied.

She shrugged. "And then there's the fact that in chasing you around for seven months, I managed to get my gun taken away twice and my own handcuffs used on me three times by the person I was supposed to be bringing in. Not exactly a top-notch performance."

"Come on, Javier, you're really good at what you do. Don't ever doubt that." He took in her surprised expression for a moment and then added, straight-faced, "I'm just better."

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Are you _teasing_ me, Eppes?"

"You must not have any siblings, or you'd know the answer to that," he replied dryly.

She half-turned towards him. "So I take it that growing up, you were the mean big brother and poor Charlie was the target of your teasing."

"Yeah, the poor, defenseless mathematician who stared you down in an interrogation room," he shot back. He'd been so proud of his brother when he let slip how he had kept Don's presence hidden from Javier in Washington.

"He's more devious than he looks," she muttered.

"Yeah, tell me about it," he responded.

There was silence for a moment. Don threw a handful of fish food into the pond, watching the koi swirl to the surface and gobble it up, waiting for Dina to explain what she was doing here.

"So what are you going to do next?" she finally asked.

He huffed out a breath. Why was he not surprised that she would be asking that? "Well, I figure Charlie and Dad'll let me mooch off them for a couple of months yet."

A smile curled the corners of her mouth.

"I'm only half-kidding," he added. "I haven't really thought about it." That wasn't quite true—he'd thought about it plenty, but hadn't come up with any reasonable course of action.

"Wright would still take you back if you asked," she said, watching him carefully.

He snorted. "He'd have to ask me. He's the one who believed I was actually holding you hostage." He met her gaze for a moment, then looked away. "Besides, there's no way I could go back." He thumped the top of his left leg. "Even if the physical therapy works and I get away without a limp, which they're not too hopeful about."

"So you _have_ thought about it," she said.

"Yeah, I have." He was silent for a couple of beats, then asked, "Listen, how many times when you catch someone do they claim they're innocent?"

"One in two? Two in three?" He felt her gaze on him as she said, "And how many times are they actually innocent? One in a hundred? In five hundred?"

"That's not the point," he said, shaking his head. "Look, I'm not saying that I'd believe everyone who ever said they were innocent, despite what I've been through. It's just—" He paused, trying to put it into words. "Right after the bus accident, up in the mountains. Say I really was a murderer on the run. Say that instead of the rock falling down the hill, you were distracted by me claiming that I was innocent, and you let your guard down for that one crucial second."

"You'd have the gun and I'd be dead," she replied flatly.

_Exactly_, he said with a tilted head and raised eyebrows. "Any doubt I allowed to creep in would keep me from doing my job." He looked away at the koi swimming back and forth and added quietly, "And besides that, I would always be wondering if somewhere out there, there was someone like me."

"Well, when you put it that way, it makes me want to quit, too," she replied.

"No, it doesn't." He looked at her knowingly. "It makes you want to do an even more thorough job next time to make sure you get it right."

She ducked her head and muttered something he couldn't hear. Then she said, "Look, the reason I asked is…." She reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a business card, handing it to him.

He took it and read it. _Enrique Lopez, Assistant Manager, Rancho Cucamonga Quakes. _He didn't say anything, just gave her a quizzical look.

She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. "We went to high school together," she said, gesturing at the card. "He's been in minor league ball his whole life: he played in the Central Valley, then with a league on the East Coast for a while, and then he came back to manage this team. I, uh, I know that you used to play baseball, and I contacted him a week or so ago." She plucked another piece of grass and started folding it back and forth. "They're going to need a third base coach at the end of the season, and I told him about you, and he said he knew who you are and that he'd be interested."

Don stiffened. "Just what does he know?"

She quickly held out her hands. "Not what you think. Well, of course he reads the papers, but he knows you from before. I guess he was with the Visalia Oaks when you were with the Rangers, crossed your path a couple of times in the California League." She looked at him more closely. "It's not a charity appointment, Eppes. He thinks you were a good ballplayer and he wants to talk to you about coaching."

He ran a hand over his jaw. "Wow." He had been trying not to think about his future, mostly because he had no idea what to do with himself and he didn't want to dwell on that while he was still physically and emotionally recuperating. Baseball hadn't even occurred to him, but as he thought about it, he liked the idea a lot. Close to home—Rancho Cucamonga was less than an hour away—definitely non-hazardous, and still offering him the chance to do something he was good at. "Thank you," he said in a heartfelt tone.

She pursed her lips. "It's a job opportunity, not an offer." But he saw the pleased look in her eyes, and he smiled.

They sat in silence for a moment. Then she sat up straight and brushed the grass off her palms. "I should be going. My mother thinks that now I'm done with the 'biggest case of my life'," she curved her fingers to emphasize the quotes, "I have all the time she needs to help her out around the house."

"You don't appreciate being able to spend more time with her?"

She frowned. "She probably wasn't expecting me to be around _quite_ so much." When he gave her a curious look, she sighed and fidgeted with the hem of her dress. "It's funny. On the one hand, I was forced to face down my biggest fear, and now it doesn't bother me anymore." She lifted a hand to her throat and looked at him questioningly. He nodded, and she went on. "On the other hand, I've been staying at my mother's place because every time I go into my house, I get this—" She pressed her hand against her chest.

"Panic attack?" he asked quietly.

She gave a short nod and looked away. "Yeah."

"For the past four weeks?"

"Pretty much."

He took a deep breath and followed her onto the limb she'd already gone out on. "Charlie's been hanging out with me some afternoons in the park down the block from the Pasadena police station."

She blinked. "The sirens?"

"And the uniforms." He shook his head. "I used to be in law enforcement, for God's sake. Now I'm afraid of their shadows."

"You had to develop some pretty powerful instincts to stay out there for so long," she said. "It's going to take a while to accept that you're safe."

"Yeah, I guess so." He hesitated a moment, then said, "You know, I can recommend a good shrink."

"Is it the same one you were seeing before?" Then she clapped a hand over her mouth. "I shouldn't know that about you, should I?"

Don looked down at the grass. It had bothered him more than once during his incarceration and flight: the thought of his fellow agents reading through his personal file in painstaking detail, using every scrap of information to try to figure out why he had committed his alleged crimes or where he might have fled to. The reminder made him shift uncomfortably where he sat, but given the stricken expression on Dina's face, he thought he could let it slide. "No, I suppose not."

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely.

He shrugged a shoulder. "Guess I'll file it away as something else to talk to Doc Bradford about."

"So you've already seen him again?"

"Well, it's kind of hard to find someone who specializes in exonerated fugitives, so I figured since he was okay before, I'd give him another try." He leaned slightly forward. "Can you believe that the first thing he asks me is, 'So, done any traveling lately?'"

Her eyebrows rose towards her hairline. "Are you serious?"

"It was a test, I guess. Heck, everything they ask is a test, you know? But then, Charlie would say that the purpose of a test is to find out if you've added anything to your knowledge base, so I s'pose that's a good thing." He leaned back and propped himself up on both arms, feeling the blades of grass crinkle underneath his palms. "The point is, he already has a good idea of what happened, so you wouldn't have to explain a lot of details."

"I thought the point of going to a shrink was that they made you talk about things."

"Well, yeah. When you're ready." He thought for a moment. "Or if you don't want to do anything official, I'm sure Megan would be glad to listen."

She pulled another blade of grass out of the ground and tore it to shreds, speaking in a low voice. "The thing is, I have this reputation to maintain, and I don't want Megan or anyone else at the Bureau knowing how weak I'm being."

"Whatever. Javier, you're the strongest person I know." He spoke casually, but he was surprised to find how much he meant the words.

Her head shot up and her eyes met his. "So are you," she said quietly.

They looked at each other for a moment, her light brown eyes reflecting the same mixture of cautious acceptance and understanding that he could feel on his own face. Then her lips began to twitch. "And thus concludes the first meeting of the Eppes-Javier Mutual Admiration Society."

He burst into laughter, a smile stretching out his mouth and putting those wrinkles in the corners of his eyes that in his vainer moments he was sure were going to age him before his time. "That's about it," he chuckled.

"Okay, now I get it," she said after a moment of studying his face.

He tilted his head quizzically.

"That's how you managed to stay ahead of me all those months. That's how you got out of the Ontario Mills Mall, right? You flashed that gorgeous smile at some woman, and she hid you from us. You probably smiled like that at women all over the country and they fell all over themselves to help you."

"I did not—" he started indignantly, and then caught himself in mid-sentence. "No, I didn't," he finished with more dignity.

"Mmm-hmm. What about in Alabama?"

He controlled his reactions better that time, raising an eyebrow and calmly asking, "What makes you think I was in Alabama?"

"Come on, Eppes, you and I both know you were there."

He shook his head, the last traces of his smile fading. "I'm not saying another word," he said quietly.

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to open up a case against anyone, I just want to know."

"Then you're going to have to keep on wanting, because I'm not going to tell you." With all of the phone calls and cards that he'd received at home from anonymous or unknown well-wishers (an embarrassing amount, actually), he'd returned only two. Gina and Meg had been delighted to hear that he was home safe and sound, and he promised them both that he would never tell a soul what they had done for him. Even with assurances like the one Javier had just given him, there was no way he could guarantee their future immunity, and he owed them far too much to say anything that might get them in trouble some day.

"Fair enough," she finally said.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Just like that?"

"Sometimes it's wisest to choose your battles," she said primly.

He smiled. "Yeah, I guess that's true."

After another moment, she said, "Okay, now I really do have to go." She reached over and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Thanks for the reference."

He nodded. "Thanks for the contact."

She squeezed his shoulder before letting go and rising to her feet. He started to rise as well, but she gestured for him to stay put. "See you around," she said before turning and walking away.

He sat out there for another fifteen minutes or so, watching the koi, fingering the business card Dina had given him and thinking about what she said. Finally, he couldn't ignore the rumblings of his stomach any longer, and he started the awkward process of climbing to his feet. He still had another month or so on the crutches, less than originally anticipated, but he had the feeling that as soon as he felt completely comfortable with them, it would be time to move on to the next step, as it were.

He hobbled into the house and called out. "'Lo?"

"In here," came Alan's voice from the living room. He swung his way through the kitchen and dining room, pausing when he saw his father on the phone. "Yes, all sausage and half mushroom." He cast a quick glance at Don. "Better make than an extra-large. Yes, that's right. All right." He hung up the phone and leaned back in the recliner. "I didn't get to the grocery store today like expected, and Charlie's spending the afternoon with Amita, so I thought I should take care of feeding us."

"Amita, huh?" He hadn't heard a word about his brother's former student since their conversation in Washington, and he hadn't wanted to ask for fear of getting an awkward answer.

"Apparently they've decided to give it another try," Alan replied, the tone of his voice indicating that he thought this was a great idea.

"Well, good for Charlie," Don said, making his way over to the couch and lowering himself onto it with a barely-concealed wince. He turned and stretched out so his head was resting on one arm of the sofa and his leg was propped up on the other.

Alan eyed him. "So. What did she want?"

For an answer, Don dug into his jeans pocket and held out the business card. Alan leaned forward and took it, then read it carefully, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

"Someone who knows me from Stockton," he explained. "Apparently they're gonna be looking for a third base coach, so…."

"Huh." Alan handed the card back to him. "Guess that means there's no going back to the Bureau for you."

He frowned. His father had never asked him that in the weeks that he'd been at home. He had assumed that Alan had assumed that he was through with the FBI. "Well, no, not really," he said cautiously, tapping his left thigh for emphasis.

Alan looked at him shrewdly. "I was there when those doctors told you there's still a possibility for a full recovery."

"A possibility," he echoed.

"Mm-hm." Alan took off his glasses, folded them, and put them on the end table. "It's not your leg, though, is it?"

Don let out a slow sigh. "No, it's not."

His father regarded him for a long moment. Finally he said, "You know, when you joined the Bureau, I remember being afraid that something like this would happen someday."

Sometimes his sarcastic streak was too hard to control. "What, that I'd get framed for murder and have to go on the run?"

He got a sharp look in response that made him feel about six inches tall. "No, that you'd end up jaded and disillusioned and unable to keep doing something that brought you such pleasure when you started. I certainly never envisioned anything remotely like what's happened to you."

"It's not that, Dad." He propped himself up on one elbow and explained it the way he'd explained it to Dina. When he was done, Alan's expression turned thoughtful. Then he reached forward and laid a hand on Don's ankle. "I'm sorry, son," he said. "I seem to have underestimated you."

"That's pretty easy to do," came Charlie's voice from the foyer, followed by the slamming of the front door.

Don furrowed his brow. He hadn't even heard the door open. "Hey, should I be insulted by that?"

Charlie dropped his backpack on the floor before coming forward and plopping onto the floor next to the couch. "We've finally gotten you back home after months of hell, and you think I would be so cruel as to insult you?"

He reached out and tousled the dark brown curls. "I'd wonder who you were and what you'd done with my brother if you didn't."

Charlie ducked his head out of the way. "For the record, that was not an insult. There's a lot of people who underestimated you over the past year, Don."

"And thank God for that," Alan said. When they both turned to look at him, he said, "Well, you got back here in one piece and the guilty parties are behind bars, right? They didn't think you'd find a way out, and yet you managed to. That's underestimating you."

"Guess so," Don said, leaning back against the arm of the couch and closing his eyes. As far as he was concerned, Tuttle and his conspirators had known exactly what to do to him and how he'd react. Dina was the one they'd really underestimated, but he didn't think his father would appreciate hearing that.

"You all right?" Charlie asked, concern in his voice.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, waving a hand. "Just resting my eyes."

"Uh huh. Busy day sitting by the koi pond?"

"Leave him alone, Charlie," Alan chastised.

"No, it's okay," he said, opening his eyes. "I can't sit around here on the couch forever." _And doesn't that sum up my life right now_, he thought.

"Yeah, I'm going to have to start charging you rent pretty soon," Charlie teased.

"Yeah?" He rolled his head sideways against the arm of the couch so Charlie's face was in his field of vision. "How much does the couch go for?"

"There's a whole spare room upstairs, you know. And family gets a discount; just ask Dad."

"Dad?" He tilted his head forward, chin to his chest.

Alan's face was surprisingly serious given the byplay between his two sons. "Actually, there might be more than one spare room available."

Don slowly sat up and exchanged a look with Charlie, who looked as baffled as him.

Alan drew in a deep breath. "I've been thinking," he said. "Millie has a spare room at her house, and we've been talking it over, and I think it's time that I moved on out of here."

"But," Charlie started, "Dad, we just finished the outer stairway three months ago."

"I have a feeling there might be someone else who could get some use out of that," he replied, giving Don a meaningful look.

He blinked. Then he held his hands up. "Dad, I am not kicking you out of your own home."

"You wouldn't be doing any such thing." Alan shifted forward in his chair, leaning his forearms on the tops of his thighs. "Millie and I have been talking about this for months, but we agreed that it wouldn't be right to leave Charlie by himself while you were, well, away."

_Nice euphemism, Dad,_ Don thought.

"I'm not a kid. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of a house by myself," Charlie protested. "And I can't believe you didn't bring this up before."

"It wasn't that, son, although I have noticed a funny noise coming from the air conditioner that you might want to check out. I never brought it up because, well, it just wasn't right." He looked back at Don and his eyes softened. "As long as Charlie and I were both here, it was easier to believe that you were coming home. If I'd moved out, well…" He looked down at the floor. "It would have been like giving up on you."

"Aw, Dad…" Don's voice caught. "I know you never would have done that. Either one of you."

Alan's eyes glistened for a moment. Then he straightened up in his seat and cleared his throat. "Besides, you weren't going to get a place in Rancho Cucamonga, were you? The smog is terrible out there, and it seems like they have a wildfire every other year."

"What?" Charlie looked up at him. "What's in Rancho Cucamonga?"

"Nothing yet." As Charlie continued to fix him with a questioning stare, he went on with a slight shrug, "Javier knows a guy who's a manager with the minor league team out there who wants to talk to me."

"That's great!" Charlie gave his arm a light punch. "The Quakes, right? The team that plays in the Epicenter?"

"Yeah, that's them," he said, shaking his head. "Someone must have been really proud of themselves when they came up with that name for the stadium."

"I love that name," Charlie said. "So what do they want to talk to you about?"

"A coaching job." Charlie's eyes lit up, and Don hurried on, "It's not a sure thing, it's just a possibility."

"You'll be great," Alan said confidently.

"First I have to get an interview," he muttered.

Alan reached forward and laid a hand on his ankle. "You'll be great, son," and Don knew he was talking about more than a job interview. "You'll do just fine."

oooooooooooooooo

A/N: I know some of you are going to be disappointed about Don's decision, but I hope you understand. The next half of the chapter should help. :)


	34. 16b: Walk On

A/N: Thanks again to my betas (ritt and Susan W.) and technical advisors (Suisan and Lady Shelley); you guys are great. I also want to thank the members of the Frequent Reviewers Club; it's been so heartening to see your comments after each and every (or almost every) post. Your encouragement and reviews have meant a lot to me, and I really appreciate it. I'm going to miss what you have to say! (Until I finish the next story, that is…)

Disclaimer is in the prologue.

Oh, and Chapter 16 is dedicated to the Boston Red Sox, because they rock. :D

ooooooooooooooo

April 3, 2009  
1:05 P.M.  
The Epicenter, Rancho Cucamonga, CA

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the opening day of the 2009 baseball season with your Rancho Cucamonga Quakes!"

The roar of the crowd went up behind the dugout, and Don was surprised to realize how nervous he was considering that he wasn't playing, just coaching. But over the last six months, he'd gotten to know his new teammates pretty well, and he was eager to see how well they would do today. Some of them were so young—the same age as Charlie's students—but some of them had been around the block a few times. He could see an alternate version of himself in some of them: the ones who had accepted long ago that they were never going to make it to the majors but decided that they still wanted to play ball for a living. Sometimes he couldn't help but wonder how different his life would be if he had chosen that path. He was usually able to shut off thoughts like that before they got too far.

Last summer, he'd given Enrique Lopez a call a few days after Dina came by the house. The assistant manager had been pleased to hear he was interested but told him to call back once the season was over. Don had pushed himself as hard as he could in his physical therapy sessions to get rid of the crutches and then the cane, and he'd finally met with success in mid-October, right before calling Lopez back. There were a couple of other candidates for the job, but Lopez said Don came highly recommended by both his baseball and FBI references, and he wanted him to come out and meet with the team. The interview had gone well, and when they offered him the job, he accepted it without hesitation.

He accepted the job because he missed baseball, and he had once been pretty good at it. And he didn't know what else to do with himself. He didn't realize until he'd been working for a month or so how much of his former life fit right into the new one. Part of being a team leader had meant knowing his agents' skills and weaknesses and pushing them to do better or adjusting the rest of the team accordingly. He learned quickly which players were the fastest runners, which ones took the most risks, which ones had to be chewed out for ignoring his signals and trying to score when they shouldn't, and which ones simply needed to be encouraged to trust their own instincts.

The skills that had been honed from years of questioning suspects and carrying out field operations served him well, too. He could watch an opposing pitcher and know within a few innings how he was telegraphing his pitches, then tell the batters in the dugout before they went up to the plate. He watched the coverage pattern that the fielders made, how they shifted position depending on who was up to bat, and how they left openings for a hitter who could place the ball just right. When a runner arrived on his base, he reminded them of the score and the number of outs, who else was on base, and what their strategy should be if the ball was put in play, just like reminding his team of the tactical situation before moving in.

Even if he wasn't as fast on his feet as he used to be, his mind was lightning sharp. He took in the speed of the runners, the strength of the throwing arm of the outfielder and the relay man, the skill of the catcher, the score and the inning and the number of outs, and processed it all at a rate that would blow Charlie's mind before giving the runner the signal to go or stay. It took a healthy dose of instinct on top of some pretty fast calculations, and he was pleased to see that the quick thinking that had kept him alive for so many years of work and so many months of running was valuable here.

Not everything went smoothly, of course. The first base coach had been hoping to move up a spot in the hierarchy and was resentful for a while that someone who had spent so many years away from the minor leagues could take a spot that he felt was his. Some of the players were a little wary of him at first, some wondering what an FBI agent could know about baseball, some vaguely recognizing his name as someone who'd been in trouble with the law. After a standoff with one young buck right out of college, he'd stalked away to cool off and overheard a player with a couple of years of experience say, "Dude, he spent years telling people what to do when their _lives_ depended on it. I think you can trust him to give you the right signal to steal a base."

The announcer's voice broke into his thoughts. "Now introducing the visiting team, the High Desert Mavericks." Don watched as some of the players on his bench leaned forward for their first look at their opponents. They'd played in an exhibition game already, but it was different when you were on your home ground and the games counted. He found his leg bouncing up and down to release nervous energy, and he forced himself to sit still. There was another reason he was anxious about today, but he kept pushing it to the back of his mind. If anyone asked, it was the anticipation of Opening Day that was making him nervous, nothing more.

"And now, introducing your 2009 Quakes!"

They rose to their feet as one and bounded out of the dugout to the roar of the crowd. Don stood straight as the team was introduced one by one, watching each of the young men he'd gotten to know over the past six months and mentally reviewing what he'd need to do for each of them if they got on base. He almost missed the introduction of the coaches and managers, jogging out to the third base line with only the faintest trace of a limp to stand shoulder to shoulder with the rest of his team.

He'd been scanning the crowd periodically, but even a stadium as small as this one held six thousand people, and it would be hard to tell if there was anyone he knew. Alan was there, of course, about six rows behind home plate in the middle of half a row of empty seats that he had purchased in a fit of optimism, forgetting how unlikely it was that a whole team of FBI agents could know their schedules anything more than an hour in advance. Mentally, he shook his head. He knew where Charlie and the rest of his old team were today, and he knew how important it was for them to be there. He also knew how important it was for him to be here, and that if there was any news to be had, he'd receive it in due course. He took a deep breath and focused on the stadium, the fans, and his team. This was where he was supposed to be.

They removed their caps for the national anthem, and Don murmured the words along with his teammates and the crowd. At the conclusion, they raised their caps in the air and headed back towards the dugout.

"Eppes!"

The call came from to the right of the dugout, and he whipped his head around at the familiar voice. Standing at the railing at the bottom of the rows of seats, looking incongruous in her black pantsuit among the blue and beige t-shirts of the Quakes fans, stood Dina Javier.

His heart started to pound. _Oh, no. She shouldn't be here so soon_.

When she saw that she had his attention, she grinned and gave him a thumbs-up. Then she mouthed a single word: _Guilty_.

His heart skipped a beat. "For real?" he shouted at her. The glee on her face couldn't be interpreted any other way, but he still couldn't believe it.

"For real!" she called back. Then she waved him off towards the dugout. "Good luck!"

He dropped down the three steps into the dugout and sank onto the bench, watching the fielders head out for the top of the first inning. His heart was thumping, the sudden adrenaline rush having caught him by surprise, and he leaned back against the cinderblock wall and took a deep breath.

"You okay, Eppes?" asked Enrique Lopez from the other end of the bench.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He stared out at the San Gabriel Mountains soaring in the distance behind the outfield, processing what had just happened. "Actually," he added after a moment, "I'm really good."

Five months ago, when J. Everett Tuttle's trial date had been set for mid-March, he'd worried that it would interfere with the start of the baseball season. What it had meant in the end was a lot of late nights in December and January and on into February at the FBI office or his and Charlie's house or Dina's place doing prep work with Howard Meeks. According to rumors, the Assistant U.S. Attorney had called in every favor owed to him in order to be the one who got to prosecute the billionaire for attempted murder, conspiracy to commit murder, and a whole host of other charges. He and Dina and Don had worked for hours a night for weeks on end preparing testimony, lining up witnesses, and figuring out how to deal with the awkward questions the defense was sure to ask about Don's legal status during the time of Tuttle's alleged crimes.

More than once, he had to fight back the fear that it would all be for nothing, that he would blow it on the witness stand or that Tuttle's slick lawyers would get him off scot-free and that Don would be left always looking over his shoulder. He knew Dina felt the same way because she'd confided it to him one night at about one A.M., when he had to be at the ballpark in six hours and she had five active cases that were screaming for her attention. They'd been at her house, and he had found it strange to be sitting in the room where he had so nearly lost his life while listening to her haltingly share her worries and doubts about the case. He'd reminded her that not only had she physically fought off Tuttle, but she had mentally fought off the ensuing anxiety that kept her from going home, and that compared to those things, giving testimony in the courtroom was a piece of cake.

She'd returned the favor a couple of weeks later at the FBI office, when he wondered for at least the tenth time what he was going to do if the defense pointed out that he'd never been prosecuted for his interstate flight from the authorities. She firmly reminded him of how Tuttle's words on "inadequate manpower" were going to come back to bite him in the ass, in an imaginary dialogue with the discredited billionaire that had Don shaking with laughter in a matter of seconds.

Nevertheless, the first time he walked into the courtroom, it took all the strength he had to keep his face impassive. The last time he'd been in that place, his world had been falling to pieces around him, his grief still bottled up while confusion and anger warred for supremacy in his mind. Then, the first time he laid eyes on Tuttle, the man's smirk was so reminiscent of the one he'd worn while pointing a gun at Don that he was afraid he was going to have a flashback. Only Alan's hand on his arm and Dina's calming look, the same one that had pulled him through the phone call Tuttle had forced him to make, kept him in control.

His testimony had gone better than expected; the defense did ask some of the hard questions he'd been expecting, but thanks to Meeks' careful coaching, he got through it with flying colors. He had just enough emotion in his voice when describing the events at Dina's house all those months ago that the jury would believe it had happened the way he told it, but not so much that he sounded like he was overcome. Then he'd stayed for Dina's testimony despite the extra time away in the critical weeks before the start of the baseball season, in part because Meeks strongly urged him to as a sign of support, but also because he really did support her. She never faltered on the stand, answering each question in her usual straight-forward fashion, although a trace of remembered fear did creep in once or twice in response to Meeks' questioning about how Tuttle had tried to kill the two of them. Each time, her gaze had shot to his, and he'd tried to project that same sense of calm assurance back at her that she'd provided when he was on the stand.

After she was done testifying, he'd gone back to work the next day and hadn't seen her or anyone else from the FBI for the last two weeks while the final witnesses testified and the closing arguments were held. When he found out that the jurors were scheduled to begin their deliberations on Opening Day, there hadn't been a question of where he would be. The jury was likely to take a while to reach a verdict, and he didn't need to be waiting around for their answer when he had people depending on him here.

But now, as it turned out, the deliberations hadn't taken very long at all.

When he went out for the bottom of the first inning, he looked up and spotted Dina sitting next to Charlie and Alan. That brought a smile to his face. Megan and Dina apparently had regular tugs-of-war over Charlie's time, and he had jokingly suggested giving up his position at CalSci and consulting full-time for the FBI, but Millie had firmly vetoed that idea. He also had a promising graduate student with interests in forensic mathematics whom he was training to carry out the same kind of consulting work that he was so good at. Don was still pleased that his brother didn't hold any grudge against the FBI. He'd meant what he said back in the hotel room in Washington: there were a lot of people out there who could use Charlie's help, and he was glad the mathematician was willing to provide it.

When he came out in the middle of the fourth inning, Megan and Larry were waving at him from Dina's other side. By the end of the sixth, Colby and David were seated next to them, not in the standard-issue FBI suits that their colleagues were still wearing, but in jeans and what looked like freshly-purchased Quakes t-shirts. He thought he would be nervous with all of their eyes on him, but as it turned out, there wasn't much for him to do. A two-out, seventh-inning walk followed by a home run put the Quakes on top, and the score remained the same until the end of the game, with only one or two baserunners for Don to keep an eye on. After the last Maverick struck out in the ninth, the team clattered into the locker room, whooping and cheering their first victory of the new season.

Over an hour passed before Don had showered and changed and finished a brief meeting with the other coaches and managers. But he wasn't surprised when he left to find seven people standing in the parking lot right outside the locker room exit, their faces all lighting up when they saw him. Charlie was the first one to step forward and engulf him in a hug, and then they were all around him, patting his back or shoulder or arms.

"Geez, you guys," he said when he finally freed himself and took a step back. "It was only one game."

"Ha ha," Charlie said from his right side with a knowing smile, his arm still slung around Don's shoulders.

On his left side stood Dina, and he turned towards her. "So, what happened?"

"Four hours," she said. "That's all it took the jury."

He raised his eyebrows. "That's fast."

"That's damn fast," she agreed. "Seems it was a combination of Metzke's testimony and yours, according to what the foreman said afterwards."

"And yours," Megan said, giving Dina a pointed look.

She shrugged. "It wasn't anything you hadn't already said," she replied, looking at him sideways. "And I'm sure you got a lot more sympathy points than I did."

He frowned as something occurred to him. "Wait, if they started at eight and then deliberated till noon and then delivered the verdict, how the heck did you get out here by the time the game started?"

"Who knew a hybrid could go so fast?" she replied, leaning around him to shoot a teasing look at Charlie.

The curly-haired mathematician rolled his eyes and dropped his arm from around Don's shoulders. "There's no reason why a hybrid vehicle can't go the same speed as a normal gas-guzzler," he said in a long-suffering voice. "And besides, you're the one who insisted I break the land speed record for the San Bernardino Freeway."

"Well, someone wasn't answering his phone, and I thought he'd want to know the verdict as soon as possible."

He cast a glance at Charlie. "Just how fast does that car of yours go?"

Charlie mimed zipping his lips while casting a quick glance at Alan.

"Sometimes having that FBI badge comes in handy," Dina interjected with a smile.

He mock-stared at her. "Agent Javier, that's abusing the authority of your position."

"Wouldn't be the first time," she said with a telling look.

He blew out a breath, remembering how she had called him in as an agent down when he was bleeding out on the floor of her dining room. "No, I suppose it wouldn't," he admitted.

He caught a curious look from Colby and gave him a slight shake of his head. Some things were better off forgotten.

"So, we hadn't planned for it to happen quite so soon," Megan said, slipping an arm around Larry's waist, "but the party's at our place tonight. We'll be ready for all of you around—" she checked her watch—"seven o'clock, I think."

"I take it it's BYO non-white foods?" David asked.

"Sustenance will be provided in all colors of the rainbow," Larry said with an expansive gesture. "But I shan't discourage you from bringing extra refreshments if you desire."

"I guess marriage has broadened your horizons," Don teased the physicist.

Larry's cheeks turned pink as Megan pulled him closer to her. "That would be one way of putting it," he agreed.

They all laughed. "See you in a while," Megan said, stepping forward to give Don another quick hug before walking off arm-in-arm with Larry.

"I still can't believe it," Colby said, shaking his head as he watched the two of them go.

"Man, if you don't believe it by now, you're never gonna believe it," David said, nudging his side. "Come on, give me a ride home so I can pick up some non-white 'refreshments' just in case."

"Yeah, sure," Colby agreed. "See you in a bit," he said, raising a hand.

Don waved the two of them off. Megan's downtown loft apartment hadn't been to Larry's tastes, and they had purchased a sprawling ranch house in the upper reaches of Altadena, ironically not too far from the monastery where the physicist had cloistered himself after returning from space. There was a great view, a huge yard, and plenty of room to host events like the one planned for that evening.

And like their wedding, which had taken place on the winter solstice. He was still touched that they had waited to hold the ceremony until he could be present. If that didn't speak of the deep bonds of friendship that existed among this group he would always be part of, nothing would.

"So," Alan said, turning to the group that was left. "There's three cars for the four of us, right?"

"Right," Charlie agreed. "Dina, I assume you want to ride back with Don so you can tell him the details?"

"If that's okay," she said, casting him a quick glance.

"Are you kidding?" he asked. "I'm dying to hear what Tuttle's face looked like when the foreman delivered the verdict."

"You should have seen _her_ face," Charlie said, jerking a thumb towards Dina and raising his eyebrows. "Talk about the cat that ate the canary."

"I'm just looking forward to the sentencing," she replied with a slightly vindictive grin.

Behind him, the locker room door swung open, and the three outfielders came walking out, duffles slung over their shoulders. "Good game, you guys," Don called after them.

The tallest one lifted a hand in acknowledgment. "Thanks, Kimble. See ya tomorrow."

"See you," he replied, then held his breath.

They walked on for a few steps. Then he heard Dina's voice hissing, "_What_ did he just call you?"

He let out the breath. "It's a nickname."

"But that's—" She made a move as if to start off after the three ballplayers.

He grabbed her upper arm. "It's no big deal, okay?" he said in a low tone, conscious that his brother and father were also regarding him with concern.

She whirled towards him. "That's ridiculous. How can that not remind you of everything you've been through?"

His other hand came up to her other bicep. "Every day that I put on a baseball uniform instead of a gun and badge reminds me of that."

The anger drained out of her face. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.

"Hey, it's okay. I've got a great job, I've got a great family…" _I've got a pretty girl right here_, he thought, but didn't dare say it out loud with said family so close by. Not that he wouldn't love to see the expression on Dina's face if he called her a "girl." He lightly squeezed her arms. "I'm doin' okay."

She regarded him seriously, and for a moment he imagined she was reading his thoughts. Then she quickly leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him, catching him by surprise. His arms briefly slid forward and tightened around her before she pulled back. "We'd better get going," she said, turning away. "Charlie, can I get my stuff out of your car?"

"Yeah, sure," he said with a sideways glance at Don. "Come on, let's go."

The two of them started off towards the light blue Prius, by now one of the only cars left in the parking lot. Don gestured to his father, and they started following behind.

"So, Coach Eppes, what do you think the prospects are for this year?" Alan asked, falling into step beside him.

Don looked after the head of dark brown hair a few steps in front of him, thinking about the warm embrace she had given him a moment ago. A smile slowly spread over his face. "You know what? I think it's gonna be a really good year."

ooooooooooooooooooo

A/N: Okay, I think I got all of the loose ends. Well, except the one that was created in those last few paragraphs. ;) One epilogue, coming up!

Although if you're happy with leaving things the way they are here, that's okay, too.


	35. Epilogue

A/N: This was not part of the original story, and even after I wrote it, I wasn't planning on posting it. But a comment from Alice way back in Chapter 8 got me thinking. And then Kristen pointed out a certain inequity that needed to be rectified. And based on some of the comments on previous chapters, the majority of the readership might find it…satisfying. It's not essential to the story, and if you're happy where the last chapter left off, then stop reading now. Otherwise…

Once more for the road: disclaimer and acknowledgments are in the prologue.

oooooooooooooooo

Epilogue

Monday, May 2, 2009  
10:13 P.M.  
3930 Glenalbyn Drive, Los Angeles, CA

Dina Javier was in deep trouble.

Four weeks had passed since J. Everett Tuttle's conviction and the ensuing celebration at the Fleinhardt/Reeves residence. Four weeks of a difficult child kidnapping on top of a sudden, significant break in an ongoing human smuggling case on top of a routine-but-time-consuming anti-terrorist drill had left her exhausted every night. And despite that, all she could think about when she closed her eyes was a certain former FBI agent. It was driving her up the wall.

She'd never seen Don Eppes so relaxed, so at ease, as in Megan and Larry's backyard, surrounded by his friends and family. That wasn't surprising, considering the circumstances under which she knew him, but it was still fascinating to watch him avidly discussing baseball with Colby while making expansive gestures with his beer bottle or stealing potato chips off his brother's plate for no other reason that the fact that they were on his brother's plate. She'd never seen him smile so many times, either. Once or twice that full-blown, eye-crinkling smile had caught her straight in its sights, and she swore it made her heart stop. Or beat faster, she wasn't sure which one.

She'd known that Don was an attractive man; she'd recognized that the first time she laid eyes on him. It was irrelevant as long as she thought he was a killer, and it remained irrelevant in the tangle of investigation and self-recrimination and near-death situations that followed. By the time the dust cleared and she saw him in the FBI office after he was discharged from the hospital, she was too wrapped up in guilt over her part in his whole nightmare to do much more than hold a conversation with him. And then, as much as she'd wanted him to hate her so she could just walk away and not have to figure out how to deal with him, he'd been surprisingly perceptive and understanding.

Then they'd started working together preparing for the trial. She'd already known he was strong and persistent and brilliant and compassionate. But she hadn't known that he was also thoughtful and funny and organized to the point of compulsion and apparently able to survive on even less sleep than she could. Once or twice she'd thought of asking him if he wanted to crash when a session at her place ran particularly late, but on each occasion, Howard Meeks had still been around, and she didn't exactly want to host a slumber party.

Or, more honestly, she didn't know what Don would think of the offer and what would happen to their increasingly comfortable interactions if he said no.

Now they were about to go through the wringer all over again, this time for the sentencing hearing. There wouldn't be as much prep, but they would both have to go over the details of how Tuttle's crimes had affected them in order to justify the harshest possible sentence. They'd both been to any number of these hearings before, listening to relatives and friends describe the pain of having a loved one taken away or hearing how someone had been permanently incapacitated and was unable to work or live a regular life. All Dina had to show for her travails was a couple of marks on her record and a number of months with Dr. Bradford, which had been difficult but beneficial in the long run.

Nothing like her former fugitive.

Don, however, insisted that he was doing fine. Besides, there was the question again of how he should dance around the fact that he _had_ been a fugitive, had spent months evading the law and doing what he had to in order to defend himself, if only because of what Tuttle had done. Meeks suggested they focus on his gunshot wound and the likelihood that Don would not have been able to return to the FBI even if he had wanted to as proof of the damage the convicted billionaire had done. That would also lead Dina to focus on the weeks in which she couldn't stand to be in her own house, which she was fine talking about now, but would probably garner considerable sympathy from the jury.

Then there was the question of Liz. Don had been very, very reluctant to talk about her, but since her death was the catalyst for everything else, and conspiracy to commit murder was one of the charges Tuttle had been convicted of, he was going to have to say something about how his lover's murder had affected him.

Now she was watching him from across her dining room table as he sat twirling an empty beer bottle between his fingers, arguing with Meeks over how much he was going to have to say. His eyes flickered up to hers once or twice, but for the most part he stared stubbornly at the bottle, insisting that he didn't want to get into it when there was plenty of other evidence of how Tuttle had damaged his life.

Meeks was trying to be patient, she could tell, but he was growing exasperated with Don's refusal to even discuss the subject. There was only one conclusion she could draw, and as much as it pained her, she finally opened her mouth and said, "Look, if it's still too difficult for you to talk about Liz, just tell the jury that. That's all they need to know."

His gaze shot up to hers. "It's not that," he said, his long fingers stilling the motion of the bottle.

"Then what is it?" she demanded.

He looked over at Howard and then back at her before dropping his gaze to the tabletop and speaking in a low voice. "Look, I—I was in love with Liz, okay, and it hurt like hell to lose her. And then I never really got to mourn her." He picked at one corner of the label, leaving it unsaid as to why that was the case. "And by the time I had space to, and time to think about it…" He bit his lip. "It was like she had already faded away."

Dina drew in a sharp breath as the understanding hit her. "And you're worried that's not the appropriate reaction," she said sympathetically. _From the jury's point of view—or from yours._

His eyes locked on to hers, and the traces of guilt in their depths told her she had hit the mark. Then he gave the AUSA a sideways glance. "So if you're looking for some big emotional speech about how Liz's murder devastated me, I don't think I can give it. And that might be worse than not saying anything at all."

Meeks nodded slowly. "We'll have to talk about that some more," he said, giving Don an understanding pat on the shoulder. "But thanks for being forthcoming about it."

Don gave a short nod, his attention back on the amber-colored bottle he was once again twirling between his fingers.

She exchanged a look with Howard, who gave a significant glance to the wall clock visible in the kitchen. She nodded and rose to her feet. "Okay, enough for one night. Same time and place tomorrow?"

"Afraid so," the attorney said as he hauled his briefcase off the floor and stuffed a couple of files in it before clicking it shut. "See you then."

Don grunted an acknowledgment, and she left him at the table as she saw Meeks out the door. When she returned, he had risen to his feet and was standing at the sink, rinsing out the empty bottle before putting it in the dishrack. She came up behind him and hesitated, wanting to reach out to him, but not sure it would be welcomed. She settled for placing a hand on his shoulder. He stiffened slightly, and she pulled away. "I'm sorry," she said, taking a step back.

"For what?" he asked, turning around to face her, his face unreadable.

"That you never got to mourn her." _That was all my fault_, she added silently.

He nodded heavily. "You thought I'd killed her," he said simply.

She looked down at the tile floor. There it was. That would always remain between them, no matter how she might wish it away. "It's so strange," she said slowly. "It's like I think of you as two different people: the one I thought you were back then and the one you really are. And the strange part is, it's not like you did anything to change from one to the other. It was how I saw you that changed."

She risked a glance up at him and saw him pursing his lips. "You know, I never asked you this, but…" He raised a hand to rub the back of his neck. "What made you change your mind about me?"

Dina thought for a moment about how to answer. "Well, originally I would have said that it was knowing they had sent someone after you. If they had the resources to track you down, why were they trying to kill you instead of returning you to prison?"

She paused, unable to meet his eyes. It was so hard to think of him now the way she had thought of him then: an escaped felon who, even if he was only guilty of a crime of passion, had still been convicted of murdering a woman. She swallowed and went on, "And then when Charlie proved to me that Alex Brock was alive, that made it possible to listen to what you'd been saying all along." She looked up at him, sending him an apology with her eyes. "I only wish I'd been able to do that sooner."

"I know," he said quietly, lowering his arm to his side. "I know you do."

She gave him a half-smile and looked away. She'd gotten rid of most of the guilt ages ago, when Dr. Bradford made her see the connection between her reluctance to go back to her own house and her inability to deal with the fact that part of what had happened to Don was her own doing. She'd come a long way since then, but there was still a gulf between the two of them that would probably always be there.

"You said 'originally'," he added, verifying once again that nothing slipped past him. "You'd say something different now?"

Tentatively, she stepped forward and reached out, fingers and thumb together, and mimed wiping something off his forehead. His brow furrowed for a moment, then cleared. "In the hurricane?" he asked incredulously. "Before you even knew someone was after me?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "I didn't realize it until much later, but yeah. You—you must have been so angry and so frustrated at that point, and there I was, the person responsible for all of it, completely at your mercy." Her fingertips brushed his face again as her voice softened. "And you couldn't help but be who you are."

They looked at each other for a moment. Then she started to lower her hand, but he swiftly reached up and caught it. "In Chicago," he said in a low voice as his fingers circled around her wrist in a tangible reminder of how he had left her in the alley, "You trusted me not to hurt you. I knew then that something had changed. That said more to me than any of the words you used."

Something had just shifted in the room, something as tangible as the feel of his hand around her wrist. She could almost hear Megan's physicist husband saying something about a warp in the space-time continuum, or maybe that was from Star Trek. Whatever it was, she was suddenly paying a lot more attention to the dark brown eyes that were only a foot away from hers, watching for clues as to what he was thinking and how he might respond.

"I did trust you," she replied. Then the corner of her mouth quirked up as she thought of him holding up her handcuff key. "Well, mostly." His lips curved upwards in response, and she went on, "I suppose it was also my way of starting to atone for what I'd done to you."

He looked at her for a long moment. "Whatever atoning you might think you needed to do," he said slowly as he shifted his grip on her hand so that their fingers were interlaced, "it's been done a long time ago."

Her breath caught ever so slightly at that. _Maybe that gulf isn't so wide after all_. His palm was warm against hers, his long fingers curling around and brushing the back of her hand. "You know," she said casually, her heart pounding faster than it had been a few minutes ago, "I never thanked you for saving my life, did I?"

One eyebrow quirked up. "Which time?"

She rolled her eyes. "Any of the three, I guess."

His brow furrowed. "The hit man who was about to shoot you, okay. The tree in the windshield, maybe. What's the third?"

"Right here in this room," she replied. "You—you _looked_ at me, and you kept me grounded and focused and _here_, and if it wasn't for that…." She trailed off, remembering the way his eyes had locked onto hers and refused to let her go, giving her the strength she needed to fight off Tuttle and later save them both.

"So did you. Right here in this room." A few heartbeats passed, and then he added softly, "Sounds like another meeting of that mutual admiration society, doesn't it?" Only then did she notice the hesitancy in his eyes, the ever-so-slight tremble in the hand holding hers. And the revelation that _he_ was nervous, that Don Eppes was unsure about what was going to happen next, fueled her own confidence.

She took a half step forward, closing the distance between them to a hand's span. Then she said in a soft voice, concentrating with all of her willpower to keep it level, "I don't think 'admiration' is quite the right word to describe what I'm feeling."

There was a flash of something like relief in his eyes before they flared with an emotion she'd never seen there before. "Maybe more like 'anticipation'?" he queried lightly, bringing their clasped hands up to his lips, where he placed the gentlest of kisses on her knuckle.

She knew there was no way her voice was going to stay level after the brush of his lips on her skin, and all of a sudden, she didn't really care. "More like 'affirmation'," she managed. It was true: the light in his eyes matched what she was feeling, affirming that whatever limb she was stepping out onto here, he was going to be right there with her.

_Right_ there with her.

She didn't know which one of them moved first, but the point was that they both moved, both leaned towards each other, both tilted their heads so that their lips met with a sweet softness that made her glad his other arm was wrapping around her waist and keeping her steady. She held on to his hand and slid her left arm around his neck, pulling him closer and gently ruffling the short hairs at the back of his head. She felt a shiver run through his body, and then his mouth slanted across hers more fiercely and she literally felt her breath being taken away.

After several long, blissful seconds, he finally drew his head back and she pulled slightly away. He let go of her hand to reach up and tuck her hair behind her ear, and then his hand kept moving, tracing along the outside of her ear, running a finger down her cheek, cupping her jaw in his palm. When he spoke, it was in a husky tone that sent a shiver down her spine. "So, what describes what you're feeling now?"

In his eyes, she saw the same mixture of wonder and pleasure and relief and revelation that she was feeling herself. On the other hand, her knees were way too weak for her own comfort. So she raised an eyebrow and said, "If you can't tell, then maybe I should try again," as she slipped her arm around his waist and pulled him right up against her.

She thought she heard a faint, "Uh oh," before her mouth closed over his.

That full bottom lip of his was way too tempting, and she pulled it between both of hers and lightly ran her tongue along it. She could actually feel his answering groan rumble through his chest, and then he was spinning her around, pressing her against the edge of the counter as his tongue entwined with hers, and a matching moan emerged from her throat. Her hands were roaming across his back, one up near his shoulders and one above his waist, and when his hand slid up into her hair to cradle her head against his, her hand at his waist made its way beneath his baseball jersey and onto the bare skin of his back.

She wasn't quite sure what happened after that, except that his warm skin under her fingers was making her almost dizzy with desire and that whole thing about playing it cool to keep her knees from going weak had gone right out the window. She finally pulled her head back to get some air, and he let her go, his chest heaving in time with hers. They stared at each other for some long seconds, his expression slightly dazed and her own eyes wide open.

"Well," he finally murmured with a crooked smile. "Do you think we could…." He nodded at the doorway to the living room behind him. "Sit down for a minute?"

_Or should we just go right upstairs?_ a voice piped up in her head.

_Down, girl._

"Yeah, that would be good," she said in a voice that was only slightly shaky.

Taking his hand, she led him around the dividing wall to the living room. There they sat side-by-side on the sofa and wordlessly embraced, she resting her head on his shoulder and he leaning his head atop hers.

She lifted a hand and placed it over his heart, feeling its rapid beat beneath his Quakes jersey. "Your heart is racing," she murmured.

"Gee, I wonder why," he replied with a smile in his voice.

Dina lifted her head to look at him. His dark eyes were regarding her steadily, reflecting the fading traces of desire, tempered with a contentedness she'd never seen in him. She lifted her hand to touch the side of his face, noting in fascination how he closed his eyes and leaned into her palm. She'd watched him with his friends and family at Megan and Larry's place and had noticed how tactile he was, reaching out to people with a hand on the shoulder or forearm, easily embracing his brother and father the way most men of his age or profession (current or former) wouldn't do. It had been like he was another person from the one she knew.

That was the difference, she suddenly realized. Four weeks ago was the first time she'd seen the man Don had been before she met him, before any of what had happened to him had happened. Small wonder it hadn't fully registered before then how attractive he was.

She felt the trace of sadness that she always did when thinking about how much he had lost, and as he opened his eyes, he must have caught a glimpse of it. "What's wrong?" he asked, sitting up a little.

She shrugged a shoulder. "I guess I'm still amazed that you speak to me at all, much less…" She waved a hand between them to indicate whatever it was that was going on.

"I have to say that—" he imitated her waving gesture—"is certainly what I'm more interested in at the moment," he said as he tilted his head and kissed her again.

She smiled against his lips before pulling back. "No, I'm serious."

"So'm I." He reached up and smoothed her hair back from her face. "I meant what I said before. You don't owe me any atonement, and I don't owe you any forgiveness."

She looked into his eyes for a moment, reading the truth of what he'd said. Then she quirked up the corner of her mouth. "You just want to get back to the…." She waved her hand back and forth again.

"Well, can you blame me?" he asked, mock injury on his face.

"Men, always thinking with their—" She was cut off by his mouth on hers, and she let out a murmur of protest that died away into a contented noise that was embarrassingly like a purr.

This time when they broke apart, he reached out and pulled her into his arms, and she relaxed against him. There was silence for a moment. Then Don asked softly, hesitantly, "This _is_ a little weird, isn't it?"

She blew out a breath. "The part where I'm kissing the man I spent nine months thinking was a murderer, or the part where you're kissing the stubborn bitch who was trying her hardest to put you in prison while being unable to admit she might be wrong?"

"Hey now." He straightened up and took his arm off her shoulders. "That's ridiculous, Javier. For one, you don't exactly have the market cornered on stubborn. That next word, I'm not going to justify with a response. And you can admit you're wrong with the best of them."

She shrugged and looked down at the sage-colored suede fabric of the couch, the spell of a moment ago broken. "Sometimes, it's all I see."

He put a hand on her cheek and turned her face towards his, waiting until she met his eyes before speaking slowly and deliberately. "I see someone who's incredibly courageous and fiercely loyal and smart as hell. And who never, ever gives up." He paused and added in a slightly deeper voice, his thumb tracing the outline of her lips, "And who has the most beautiful mouth I've ever seen."

One eyebrow went up as she fought to keep her voice steady. "My mouth? Is that the best you can do, Eppes?"

The corners of his own lips turned up as he slowly looked her up and down. She swore she could feel the heat from his gaze as it swept over her. "I dunno," he said lazily. "What else d'you want to show me?"

She gaped at him for a moment, then swatted his shoulder. "What am I getting into here?" she muttered.

His answering smile was warm. "I think you know exactly what you're getting into."

"Not really," she replied ruefully. "There's an awful lot I don't know about you."

He spread his hands wide before putting an arm over her shoulders again. "Ask me anything you want."

She regarded him for a moment. Then she shook her head. "I already know who you are," she said, placing her hand back over his heart and looking him in the eye. "I know how strong you are when you've been pushed to your limits, and I know how far you're willing to go for the people you care about. There might be a lot of details I don't know about you, but I know what counts." Then, before she started sounding too much like a Hallmark card, she added, "And I know that you fill out a pair of jeans pretty well."

"Oh yeah?" he asked, his eyes twinkling.

"Mmm-hmm." She looked at him slyly. "Just because I was busy chasing your ass doesn't mean I didn't check it out now and then."

He stared at her for a second before bursting into laughter, throwing his head back. She felt a broad grin spread across her own face. Now that was a sound she wanted to hear a lot more of: Don Eppes laughing.

"Maybe I'm the one who doesn't know what I'm getting into," he chuckled, folding his hand around hers where it lay on his chest.

"Well, I think it's safe to say you've already seen me at my worst," she said dryly. "Unconscious and bleeding is not a good look for anyone."

"Then I guess we're even," he said meaningfully, and she could see in his eyes the shadow of remembered pain from when he was fighting for his life on the floor of the room next door. She leaned forward and kissed him, hard, wanting to wipe that memory out of his mind at least for the moment. He responded eagerly, and for a moment she felt herself being carried away again, lost in the feel of his lips on hers and his hands warm on her back and in her hair. Then their kisses grew gentler, calmer, and she finally let go and leaned back.

He looked at her for a moment. "Meeks is going to wonder what prompted my change of heart next time we meet," he said, taking her hand in his and playing with her fingers.

"Change of heart about what?" she asked, folding her fingers around his so that his hand would lay still and stop distracting her.

He was silent for a few seconds. "About Liz," he finally said.

"What about her?" she asked cautiously.

He let go of her hand and turned to face her. "Being ready to talk about her. I meant it earlier: I did love her, and I do miss her. But…." He trailed off and spoke in a lower tone. "I didn't want you to—to think that I wasn't ready, you know. To move on."

Dina blinked. _That's why was stalling with Meeks? Because of me?_ "She was lucky to have you," she replied, lifting a hand to run her fingers through his thick hair. "I hope she knew that."

"I always thought I was the lucky one," he said quietly, his gaze suddenly going far away.

She drew him into her arms, this time without the passion of their earlier embraces, but to offer comfort and understanding. When they pulled apart, he gave her a rueful smile. "Sorry. Even I know that it's bad form to bring up a previous relationship so soon."

"Not at all." She took both of his hands in hers. "Only once in your life do you get to have a relationship without any ghosts in it, and sometimes not even then. It's not something you have to worry about. Especially in this case."

He opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by a huge yawn. "Sorry," he said again, shaking his head. "Guess I should have had coffee instead of a beer."

She cast a glance at his watch and saw it was well after eleven o'clock. "Early morning tomorrow?"

"Aren't they all?" he asked, yawning again.

"You could stay here." His gaze shot to hers, and she quickly went on, "That is, you already know where the spare bedroom is. There's no padlock on it anymore, either."

The corner of his mouth turned up. "Thanks, but I should probably go."

"Oh, okay." She looked away quickly before he could see the disappointment flash across her face.

He reached out and put a finger under her chin, persuading her to look back at him. "I'm worried that it might be too hard to leave in the morning otherwise," he said softly.

"Some people have no willpower," she murmured teasingly.

Don leaned towards her, his mouth hovering over hers. "Believe me, I'm already exerting it," he breathed out before closing the distance between them the rest of the way.

_Why bother?_ that little voice piped up again, but she shushed it. Whatever this was between them, it was hugely complicated, and it was going to take a lot of time to work it out. Still, feeling his lips soft and sweet against hers and breathing in his warm scent, she found herself wishing that he could stay.

"Then you'd better go before I make it so you can't leave," she murmured as she leaned back.

"Oh yeah?" He raised an eyebrow. "And how are you going to do that?"

"Well," she started slowly, "it seems to me that I owe you a couple of rounds with my handcuffs."

A second eyebrow joined the first. "Wouldn't that be a misuse of government property, Agent Javier?"

"Come on, like you've never done that yourself," she retorted.

She was astonished to see a little color creep into his cheeks, and she grinned. _My, my, my_. "I meant the misuse of government property, not necessarily in that specific way."

He paused, a wary look on his face. "Uh, I think I'd better get going before I say something else I might regret."

She leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss. "There's always tomorrow night." _In whatever sense of that phrase you want_, she thought.

They walked to her front door, where they embraced one more time, Dina half afraid that when she let him go, she'd find that she'd been imagining the whole thing. She voiced the thought before she could stop herself, and he responded with a gentle smile. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said, running his hand over her hair. "I promise."

She leaned against the doorframe and watched him walk down the steps towards the driveway. _Well, that was unexpected_, she thought, replaying the last hour in her head as he drove away. _Not that I'm complaining. Not in the least_.

Back inside, she turned on the television to catch the weather forecast. The announcer was talking about an upcoming special report, and Dina was only half listening. Then a name caught her attention, and she whipped her head around. "Wednesday is the one-year anniversary of Hurricane Bertha, and we'll have special reports all day about the lingering impacts of last year's largest hurricane, which swept through Washington, DC, to devastating if temporary effect. Our coverage will include a review of the successful recovery efforts along the track of this storm and how Bertha profoundly affected the lives of people up and down the East Coast and all over the country."

"You have no idea," she said aloud, a bemused smile spreading across her face. "You have absolutely no idea."

oooooooooooooooooo

A/N: And….that's a wrap. Please make sure you have all of your personal belongings before exiting the vehicle, and thank you for riding with Z. Reviews are gladly accepted in lieu of a gratuity. :)


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